For years, I have avoided running. After all, what's the point? Sure, there's exercise, but I accomplish that through walking (when the weather is nice and I have proper motivation), reading (it exercises the mind, right?) or by regularly dancing the night away at the local discotheque. (Not true, but it does conjure a pretty funny image.) I figure that I won't ever be signing up for any road races and that the odds of being chased by dangerous wildlife near my home are not strong (though some squirrels do occasionally give me the stink-eye), so there's probably little in life that would ever require me to churn my legs in a running-like motion. Unfortunately, I happened upon a need to sprint the other night - the airport dash.
The story begins with my co-worker and I preparing to return home to Kansas after a few days in Orlando, Fla. As you might have guessed, being forced to spend three days in The Sunshine State in the midst of winter was pretty much torture. After all, who wants to enjoy a nice drink by a pool in 75-degree temperatures when he could be dealing with snow and wind back home?
Truth told, it was nice to get away for a few days, but both of us were ready to return home by Saturday. Our trade show* wrapped up early and we had checked out of the hotel so we arrived at the airport a few hours before the schedule boarding time of our flight. We wasted time by eating lunch in an airport restaurant (where, oddly, the waitstaff behaved as if they had not hoped to end up serving tacos to people lugging suitcases), surfing the Internet wirelessly, and staring at the wall. We did all this while staying far away from the gate our plane was leaving from, since it was packed so tightly with travelers that I'm fairly certain I saw two strangers sharing a pair of socks.
*Note to future self: "trade shows" don't involve swapping baseball cards. Leave them at home.
Finally, about 10 minutes before our boarding time, we approached the crowd surrounding our gate. Through the large windows in the airport, we noticed that there did not seem to be a plane actually sitting near said gate. This struck us as slightly odd, as we were fairly confident our tickets were, you know, plane tickets. Luckily, a couple of minutes later a plane taxied up. As folks started to exit the plane that had just arrived, the crowd parted like a balding man's comb over - rather sloppily. One seven-year-old boy was sitting in the way of an old woman and nearly wore luggage wheel tracks on his ankles as a result.
By this time, it was clear that things might be a bit behind, but we didn't figure the delay would be too awful. Minutes passed. We kissed the initial boarding time goodbye. More minutes passed. Then more. Finally, five minutes before the plane's schedule departure time, we heard an announcement from the gate attendant. "We're sorry for the delay folks. The incoming flight arrived a bit behind schedule and now we're still waiting for a crew to come clean the cabin."
Yup, my flight was being delayed because Mr. Belvedere was AWOL. Frankly, I did not care if there were some napkins on the floor of the plane, I just wanted to go and escape the sweaty blob that had formed from the crowd waiting to get on the plane.
After what seemed like hours of waiting and sweating, they finally allowed passengers to begin boarding. After what seemed like more hours of waiting (but at least no more sweating) we finally began to roll around the runway and actually took flight. It was at this time that I really let the situation at-hand sink it. Our plane was leaving the ground 50 minutes later than originally scheduled. My coworker and I were originally supposed to have a 75-minute layover in Dallas before our flight to Manhattan departed. After crunching some numbers in my head (ninth place in mental math at the State Math Contest in fourth grade... booyah!) I realized one thing: we were nearing a bind. Here came the sweating.
Up in the air, things seemed to get worse by the minute. No, the wings did not fall off the plane and there weren't any Airplane!-inspired issues with fish or singing stewardesses, but we seemed to be traveling at a snail's pace.* Further glances at clocks brought forth more worry. It was clear that we were going to be cutting the arrival at our next gate extremely close.
*You know, one of those snails that flies at high speeds, just not speeds that are high enough. You know those snails, right?
As we began our descent into Dallas-Fort Worth, a flight attendant announced that folks who had connecting flights should be given priority when exiting the plane. Yahtzee. Finally something was going our way. We would need it, as our plane touched ground just 15 minutes before our flight to Manhattan was scheduled to leave.
My coworker and I zigged around folks to get off the plane and as we neared the jetway, he said one thing. "Get ready to run."
With that, we took off. I've seen people sprinting in airports often on television shows or commercials; I always thought the situations seemed a bit hokey. Now, here I was sprinting by curious on-lookers. My coworker, though 10 years my senior, is a former college football player who had an NFL tryout once. Needless to say, he was a bit faster than me. (Though I was once unbeatable in Madden football on the Gamecube.)
I had the chance to attempt to catch my breath when we made it to the tram that would take us to the next terminal. It was at this time that I began to cough like someone who had just smoked a box of Cuban cigars while running the Boston Marathon. Note to self: run more often.
The tram stopped and we were back sprinting. I'd never advise anyone to run down a moving escalator, but we did just that, complete with laptop bags in tow. We even split through an elderly couple on the way down the moving steps. I didn't have time to get a long look, but they were certainly staring at us as if we had turned green and were cursing in Latvian... Then again, I may have by that point.
At long last, after more running than I've done since high school basketball coaches once forced conditioning on my team, we arrived at our gate.
It was empty.
We ran up to the desk and looked at the screen, only to read "Flight XXXX to Manhattan: Boarding Completed." One desk over, a woman stood covering a flight to San Juan. We asked her if there was any way we could still get on the plane to Manhattan. After all, the clock at the gate said 7:18 p.m. - still two minutes prior to our schedule departure time. She said she could not help us, as it was not her flight, but that the gate attendant for that flight would be back soon.
Seconds later, a middle-aged guy walked up to the desk at our gate. We immediately began asking him if he could help us; if there was any way we could still get on that plane. His response? He ignored us. Though we were two feet away from the guy, he said nothing. Finally, after a full-minute, he addressed the question of an older gentleman that had approached the desk and was in the same situation as we were. Unfortunately, the gate attendant was slightly less helpful than a paraplegic trained seal would have been in the situation. He clicked keys on the computer, but never had a reason that the plane could not have been held - since they knew ours was arriving late - or suggestions of alternative ways to get home.
Finally, my coworker snapped. With some choice words, he drove home the point that it was slightly ridiculous that his airline had put us in this situation, that we had done all we possibly could to get to the plane on time, and that he was not cooperating with us whatsoever. His response? A rather wide-eyed look and a call to his supervisor. Luckily, his supervisor acted as if she was actually familiar with the phrase "customer service." (Crazy thought, I know.) She calmly explained that they had been asking to hold the flight since ours was arriving late, but that the flight tower had the final call in the situation and that they had instructed the flight to leave. Fair enough. Frustrating, but fair.
The supervisor assisted us in arranging a flight to Wichita (which would then involve a two-hour drive home) and even provided us with a $20 refreshment voucher that would be accepted "anywhere in the airport."
We weren't thrilled, but we headed on our way to the gate for our flight to Wichita. This time, we didn't have to run. I guess things could have been worse... Then we attempted to purchase food and the vendor refused to accept our voucher and our request to rent a car in Wichita and drop it off in Manhattan was turned down by the car rental company.
Ever seen the movie, "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles"? If I was an overweight, mustached fellow that sold shower curtain rings for a living, I would have felt right at home on this trip.
-----
After a few days to reflect, I'm still not sure how it took so long to clean that plane. All I know is that I'm going to run if I ever hear that announcement over the PA again.
Showing posts with label Tales from the Road. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tales from the Road. Show all posts
Monday, December 20, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
People in Your Neighborhood - On the Road Again
As detailed in previous Writings and in academic journals throughout the nation (I assume), I recently returned from a four-day tour of the Midwest. The task at hand? Checking to make sure that seats are installed in correct locations at different college football stadiums. Yes, to some this probably sounds about as exciting as reading the ingredients on a bag of peanut M&M's (Yellow 5 and Red 40? Hello, flavor country!), but I actually enjoyed the trip. For someone who has been known to watch more college football on a Saturday than any person should attempt, it was a great opportunity to check out four college football stadiums that I'd never been to. Sure, the only action witnessed on said fields was some stretching cheerleaders in Ames and wedding pictures in Champaign*, but I still won't complain. I also enjoy the notion of a road trip, in part because there are so many new people to encounter. In the spirit of reader interaction, I urge you to insert your own clever segue into this edition of People in Your Neighborhood here. Just don't actually write it on your computer screen; that doesn't turn out well.
*Luckily, the two events were hundreds of miles and a couple days apart. I imagine wedding pictures might not go well if the groom was gawking as the cheer squad worked to loosen up their hamstrings.
The lunchlady-looking Maid Rite employee with supersonic hearing
I hope, dear reader, that you have seen the Saturday Night Live sketch where Adam Sandler sings "Lunch Lady Land" as Chris Farley plays the role of the song's protagonist. If not, you will just have to imagine a hefty man dressed up in an apron, wearing a brunette wig and a hairnet; that's the lunchlady. Now, picture this lunchlady 20 years later and you have the woman behind the counter at Maid Rite*. The woman actually kind of reminded me of mother of the criminal family in "The Goonies." She also approached her job with the zest of someone performing court-ordered community service.
*Fun fact: Maid Rite does not offer maid service, nor does it serve any flavor of Rite soda... The Writings: We're here to educate.
Lunchlady Doris took our orders* then went back to prepare the food (apparently Maid Rite is all about multitasking). After what seemed to be 45 minutes, but was probably closer to 9 (though, in Maid Rite's spirit of multitasking, she may have run out to change the oil in her car while the food cooked), she returned with our food. As my coworkers and I walked toward the door, one realized that we might need ketchup. Under his breath, he joked that we should just take one of the restaurant's ketchup bottles. It was a very quiet remark. So quiet, in fact, that I had to be filled in on what he said later on. Nevertheless, the queen of the fryer - now back behind the counter and 25 feet away - yelled our way "I put ketchup packets with your fries." Sure, it was probably a case of impeccable timing, rather than an exhibition of the type of hearing that any being would be jealous of, but I was not about to whisper anything in order to test it.
*Note for all: The Maid Rite menu is a deceiving one. At no point does the menu list details on what a Maid Rite sandwich actually is. The author assumed it was a hamburger, and when the lunchlady asked if I'd like ketchup, mustard, pickle and onion on it, I was nearly sure that was the case. Naturally, I was pretty surprised when I hopped back in the rented Jeep, and unwrapped my sandwich only to find a glorified sloppy joe. Such culinary works are not exactly ideal for road travel.
The fight crowd, plus the one girl who had sense
Saturday night, my cohorts and I wandered to a Champaign eatery. Once there, we discovered it was fight night. A UFC pay-per-view event was taking place at that very time, and this locale was a hot spot for fight fans. It turned out that we were about the only three folks in the place that had not come specifically to watch punches, kicks, and chokeholds. I'm still not sure that watching a guy's face bleed makes for great dinner entertainment, but it seemed on Saturday that such views were definitely in the minority. Every single television in the place was tuned to the UFC event; there was not a baseball game or even live coverage of a Canasta tournament to be found. When one fighter took another down with a leg-sweep, the folks rooted like they had just seen a 99-yard touchdown. When blood dripped inside the UFC octagon, the viewers cheered as if their winning Powerball numbers had just been read. And when one competitor was forced to tap out because another had contorted him in a way that would make Gumby cry, nearly everyone in the joint roared as if their favorite team had just won the Olympics, Super Bowl and World Series all at once. It was intense.
The crowd was a diverse one. I saw buzzcuts and tattoos, mullets and tattoos, braided beards and tattoos, and motorcycle jackets and tattoos. Oh yeah, and there I sat in my polo shirt and cargo shorts. I fit in about as well as the guy allergic to body paint at the tryouts for the Blue Man Group.*
*The Writings: Where else can you go for references that actually make it seem like the Blue Man Group is worth paying attention to?
I soon noticed, however, that I was not the only square peg in the room. One table over, a young woman sat, head resting on her arm with a glazed look in her eyes and a "how the hell did I end up here" look adorning her face. It was the type of body language typically reserved for college-level accounting classes. While the rest of her table hooted and hollered intelligent things like "Whoa" and "You see that?" this girl looked like she might soon attempt to see how close she could come to jabbing her fork into her retina.
Luckily for all involved, the girl with sense did not follow such urges. After all, knowing the crowd in the place, the violence probably would have been met with applause.
*Luckily, the two events were hundreds of miles and a couple days apart. I imagine wedding pictures might not go well if the groom was gawking as the cheer squad worked to loosen up their hamstrings.
The lunchlady-looking Maid Rite employee with supersonic hearing
I hope, dear reader, that you have seen the Saturday Night Live sketch where Adam Sandler sings "Lunch Lady Land" as Chris Farley plays the role of the song's protagonist. If not, you will just have to imagine a hefty man dressed up in an apron, wearing a brunette wig and a hairnet; that's the lunchlady. Now, picture this lunchlady 20 years later and you have the woman behind the counter at Maid Rite*. The woman actually kind of reminded me of mother of the criminal family in "The Goonies." She also approached her job with the zest of someone performing court-ordered community service.
*Fun fact: Maid Rite does not offer maid service, nor does it serve any flavor of Rite soda... The Writings: We're here to educate.
Lunchlady Doris took our orders* then went back to prepare the food (apparently Maid Rite is all about multitasking). After what seemed to be 45 minutes, but was probably closer to 9 (though, in Maid Rite's spirit of multitasking, she may have run out to change the oil in her car while the food cooked), she returned with our food. As my coworkers and I walked toward the door, one realized that we might need ketchup. Under his breath, he joked that we should just take one of the restaurant's ketchup bottles. It was a very quiet remark. So quiet, in fact, that I had to be filled in on what he said later on. Nevertheless, the queen of the fryer - now back behind the counter and 25 feet away - yelled our way "I put ketchup packets with your fries." Sure, it was probably a case of impeccable timing, rather than an exhibition of the type of hearing that any being would be jealous of, but I was not about to whisper anything in order to test it.
*Note for all: The Maid Rite menu is a deceiving one. At no point does the menu list details on what a Maid Rite sandwich actually is. The author assumed it was a hamburger, and when the lunchlady asked if I'd like ketchup, mustard, pickle and onion on it, I was nearly sure that was the case. Naturally, I was pretty surprised when I hopped back in the rented Jeep, and unwrapped my sandwich only to find a glorified sloppy joe. Such culinary works are not exactly ideal for road travel.
The fight crowd, plus the one girl who had sense
Saturday night, my cohorts and I wandered to a Champaign eatery. Once there, we discovered it was fight night. A UFC pay-per-view event was taking place at that very time, and this locale was a hot spot for fight fans. It turned out that we were about the only three folks in the place that had not come specifically to watch punches, kicks, and chokeholds. I'm still not sure that watching a guy's face bleed makes for great dinner entertainment, but it seemed on Saturday that such views were definitely in the minority. Every single television in the place was tuned to the UFC event; there was not a baseball game or even live coverage of a Canasta tournament to be found. When one fighter took another down with a leg-sweep, the folks rooted like they had just seen a 99-yard touchdown. When blood dripped inside the UFC octagon, the viewers cheered as if their winning Powerball numbers had just been read. And when one competitor was forced to tap out because another had contorted him in a way that would make Gumby cry, nearly everyone in the joint roared as if their favorite team had just won the Olympics, Super Bowl and World Series all at once. It was intense.
The crowd was a diverse one. I saw buzzcuts and tattoos, mullets and tattoos, braided beards and tattoos, and motorcycle jackets and tattoos. Oh yeah, and there I sat in my polo shirt and cargo shorts. I fit in about as well as the guy allergic to body paint at the tryouts for the Blue Man Group.*
*The Writings: Where else can you go for references that actually make it seem like the Blue Man Group is worth paying attention to?
I soon noticed, however, that I was not the only square peg in the room. One table over, a young woman sat, head resting on her arm with a glazed look in her eyes and a "how the hell did I end up here" look adorning her face. It was the type of body language typically reserved for college-level accounting classes. While the rest of her table hooted and hollered intelligent things like "Whoa" and "You see that?" this girl looked like she might soon attempt to see how close she could come to jabbing her fork into her retina.
Luckily for all involved, the girl with sense did not follow such urges. After all, knowing the crowd in the place, the violence probably would have been met with applause.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Notes from the road
After 1,400 miles and thousands of stadium steps all completed in a four-day span, the author's mind is a bit scattered and his body is a bit worn (plus lightly roasted). We'll hit a lot of highlights from the road trip in upcoming Writings, but I'd be doing you - the reader - a disservice if I tried to get them all right now.*
*This is what we in the blogging business call "an excuse for being lazy."
Though I will hold off on dishing out the meat-and-potatoes of the notes from the trip*, I will provide one lesson from the road that I just learned today: The western Illinois portion of U.S. Highway 36 has to be PETA's least favorite stretch of road in the nation. The four-lane traffic way was pasted with more roadkill than a hillbilly Thanksgiving spread. If you ever find yourself on this stretch of road, please, bring a shovel.
*Yes, I take notes about things I'd like to write about later while on trips... Don't worry. I've identified the problem and I'm seeking help.
*This is what we in the blogging business call "an excuse for being lazy."
Though I will hold off on dishing out the meat-and-potatoes of the notes from the trip*, I will provide one lesson from the road that I just learned today: The western Illinois portion of U.S. Highway 36 has to be PETA's least favorite stretch of road in the nation. The four-lane traffic way was pasted with more roadkill than a hillbilly Thanksgiving spread. If you ever find yourself on this stretch of road, please, bring a shovel.
*Yes, I take notes about things I'd like to write about later while on trips... Don't worry. I've identified the problem and I'm seeking help.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Things One Learns in Hays, America
- At least one parent in this world thought the name "Jeeroy" was a good idea.
- One is only allowed in a hotel hot tub at 6:45 p.m. if he converses in very loud Spanish.
- Daylight Savings Time does not apply in select hotel rooms.
- Hotels have free Wi-Fi... Free Wi-Fi that actually works is a different matter.
- 10:15 p.m. is not to late for the hotel maintenance guy to knock on your room door to make sure your keys work.
- One is only allowed in a hotel hot tub at 6:45 p.m. if he converses in very loud Spanish.
- Daylight Savings Time does not apply in select hotel rooms.
- Hotels have free Wi-Fi... Free Wi-Fi that actually works is a different matter.
- 10:15 p.m. is not to late for the hotel maintenance guy to knock on your room door to make sure your keys work.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Tales from the Road - Days 3-5
To continue the common theme here at The Writings of posting things after they are no longer timely, this summation of days 3-5 of the Road Trip of Derek Larson comes two days after I returned home. This lack of punctuality was the plan all along.*
*Cough*LIAR*cough.
In our last post - which may be commonly referred to as The Epic of Derek, thanks to it's absurd length* - Derek traveled to Arkansas, caught a Double-A baseball game, was awaken by some sort of terrorist infiltration alarm, and traveled across Missouri into Illinois. As we pick things up in part 2 of The Epic, our protagonist is departing from his stay in Galesburg, Ill., and headed toward Clinton, Iowa.
*The Cliffs Notes will be available in bookstores soon.
News flash - I can be easily distracted. While I do not officially have Attention Deficit Disorder, at times I like to consider myself as an honorary member of the ADD society. With one task on my mind, the simple sight of something out of the ordinary ("Ooh, an Arby's!") can throw me off completely. This journey marks one such occasion, as it seems some sort of distraction led me to divert from my intended route. I pulled into a gas station, grabbed my road atlas, and attempted to gain my bearings. It was at this time that I found an alternate route guaranteed to be more scenic, as it would travel right along the Mississippi River. After a quick discussion with my navigator*, this new route was accepted, and I was back on track.
*I do my best to make talking to myself sound reasonable.
While the alternate route brought a bit of frustration, courtesy massive road construction efforts, it also brought provided the opportunity to assuage my inner gambler.
At the sight of a casino, I slammed on my brakes, swerved to the right, hopped a curb, parked illegally, jumped from my car and ran inside, shouting "ching, ching" all the way. Sprinting up to the nearest roulette table, I put $500 on red, only to see that little ball settle on 26 black. Discouraged, but not defeated, I continued to feed the gambling demon inside me, only to leave when I had lost all my cash and I discovered they wouldn't accept my scorecard from the Northwest Arkansas Naturals game as a bet. As a result, I currently live in the streets of Davenport, Iowa, and I'm typing this Writing from the laptop of a Starbucks customer who is currently in the restroom.
Remember when I said I can be easily distracted? Consider the previous paragraph as proof. In truth, as I drove through Davenport, I found that this area of town along the river seemed to be a pretty nice location. Thanks in part to the Holiday Inn's "You'll Wake Up and You'll Like It" alarm from the morning before, I was well ahead of schedule, so I decided to stop and check things out. I did go and check out the casino, however my gambling exploits were not as bold as those detailed above. Embracing my "wuss bets" nature, I played nothing but penny and nickel slots. I left with $6 less than I arrived with, and the knowledge that this particular casino was basically a retirement home with smoking, drinks, and slot machines. I'm pretty confident I was the youngest person there by about 40 years.
After departing the casino, I took a stroll along the river. It was there that I encountered a rather large (read: obese), shirtless man, who wore shorts that appeared to be a bit too small; a wanna-be singer who was having a friend snap pictures of her on the stage of an ampitheater, and another large man who was putting his shirt on as he walked toward the casino. None of this is really relevant at all, but I am glad the last guy was going to follow the "no shoes, no shirt" policy at the casino.
A scenic trip on Highway 67 brought took me to Clinton, where I found the need to adjust my initial plans for lodging. Such changes were deemed necessary when I discovered that the hotel I orginally planned to stay at was located next to three rough looking bars and a gentleman's club. I decided this lodging option did not meet my strict standards for overnight stay options*, and found an alternate option.
*Rule No. 1 - Don't stay someplace where the odds of you getting stabbed are 1:1.
After settling in, I was off to Alliant Energy Field to see the Burlington Bees attempt to sting the Clinton Lumberkings.
Hitting the highlights...
- The folks in Clinton seem to take the "park" in "ballpark" very seriously, as there seemed to be as many seats available at picnic tables around the field as there were in the stands. It gave the game the feel of a little league contest. Unfortunately, I did not witness any angry parents shouting from the stands or players sitting down in the outfield.
- The drop from Double-A ball to Single-A was noticeable. The stadium featured no video board, and names did not appear on jerseys, again contributing to a little league feel. Unfortunately, I'm unsure whether the teams went out for pizza after the game.
- During the eighth inning, the folks in the stadium PA box played the chicken dance. After watching those that participated, I determined this is the method used to determine who in the stadium is no longer sober enough to drive home.
- Instead of traditional ballpark vendors, this park featured waitresses walking around with serving trays and taking drink orders. I'm unsure whether LumberKings* management conducted studies to determine that drink sales increase when those in the stands feel like they're at a bar. If so, it seems that the next step is having a jukebox in the dugout and a pool table in the outfield.
*For those curious, it seems that a LumberKing is simply a lumberjack wearing a crown. I'm not sure how many lumberjacks in the world are actually of royal bloodlines, but it may be worth looking into.
- In regard to the actual baseball game that took place, Burlington picther Ivor Hodgson showed some pitches that moved as if they had minds of their own. He struck out 12 batters in just 5 2/3 innings. Burlington topped Clinton 6-4, putting Royals-affiliated squads at 1-1 on my trip.
Friday morning, I departed the wondrous city of Clinton on my way to Omaha, Neb. This trip called for driving the entire length of Iowa, from east to west. Luckily, I wasn't traveling alone. You see, a friend called rain decided to accompany me for a few hours that morning.
While the company provided by such precipitation was appreciated*, the rain and I decided to part ways before arriving in Des Moines. Because I had plenty of driving at hand and little time for detours, I drove Interstate 80 for the length of this trip. As a result, the scenery I witness on this journey could be summed up in one word: corn. By the time I reached Omaha, I was having a hard time distinguishing what was real and what was the result of cornfield overload hallucination. The Kellogg's Corn Flakes rooster on my shoulder telling me stop at every grocery store for Corn Flake goodness certainly wasn't helping, either.
*In the same way one appreciates a flesh-eating virus.
In Omaha, I found myself cursing the person who first came up with the idea of a one-way street. Driving through the downtown area, it seemed every turn I wanted to make involved going the wrong way on a one-way. With rebellion not being part of my nature, I fought such notions and drove through the city as if I was obeying a short-circuiting GPS unit. I don't consider it a good sign when you make it from one end of a city of 390,000 people to the other and still have no idea where you are going to be lodging. I'd say my meandering trip went unnoticed, but there are probably a few folks on street corners that noticed a car with Kansas plates drive by multiple times who would disagree.
After finally finding a place to lay my head that did not involve sneaking into the zoo, I was off to Rosenblatt Stadium.
I gathered from the souvenir program that the theme for the 2009 Omaha Royals is "Fun Rules!" Sadly, the Royals entered the contest sitting at the bottom of the Pacific Coast League. Fun may rule, but it apparently doesn't involve success.
One thing fun must involve is screaming, as the kids in attendance treated the game as if it were a Jonas Brothers concert. I'm not sure why a t-shirt toss calls for ear-crippling cries, but apparently it must be listed in the Fun Rulebook.
The Royals lost to the Las Vegas 51s, 6-4. Despite the losing effort, I enjoyed the chance to see the Triple-A Royals in action. For those unaware, Triple-A is the highest level of the minor leagues, meaning many players on this squad are one sprained ankle away from playing in Kansas City. The fact that the Triple-A version of the Royals is in last place, though, does not seem to say much for the immediate future for the major league club.
The big event following the game was a fireworks display, which I decided would serve as a replacement for the colorful explosions I missed seeing while away on business for Independence Day. This particular display proved noteworthy due to the soundtrack that accompanied the show. I'm not sure what exactly Ace of Base's "All That She Wants (is another baby)" or Inner Circle's "Bad Boys" (the theme from Cops) have to do with fireworks, but I'm sure there's an explanation out there somewhere. (Even if it involves a disgruntled employee.)
With my time in Omaha coming to a close, I discovered the following morning that the Days Inn in the city is apparently the preferred lodging for hobbits in the area. The showerhead was situated no higher than the top of my chest. I could handle such an issue, but I soon discovered another problem. It seemed that the hobbits that normally inhabit this room had an issue with hot water. The basic liquid intended to wash me reached a temperature no higher than that of soup that has been sitting out for a day. Before this trip, I knew I was not a morning person, but now I am wondering if mornings are taking offense to this fact. If I ever am run down by a steamroller that has been hijacked by an escaped gorilla, I am sure it will happen in the morning.
A Saturday trip to Kansas City gave me the chance to meet up with my brother and some close friends for the final baseball game of the trip - a battle between the Kansas City Royals and the Oakland A's at "The New" Kauffman Stadium.
While I can be considered a bit of a loner, (or a hermit,) I definitely enjoyed the chance for a little human interaction after days of talking to few ballparkgoers that would pass a sobriety test. I also relished the opportunity to take in the sights at the renovated stadium. It definitely impressed, and I'm looking forward to going there again for the chance to check out new Royals Hall of Fame.
During the game, I discovered one detail about Royals fans that cannot be argued: they're literate. Everytime the stadium video board urged fans to get "louder" or "make some noise" such instructions were followed as if they were military commands. A study of cause-and-effect relationships leads to the conclusion that fans must read the words on the board in order to comprehend them. Therefore, we have literate fans. I think there's a marketing slogan in there somewhere.
Royals ace pitcher Zack Greinke took the mound for the Royals, and while he gave up more runs than he does normally (three... which speaks to how dominant he's been this season), the offense offered a performance very out-of-the-ordinary, scoring 12 runs. An excellent capper to the Road Trip of Derek Larson. The Royals topped the A's 12-6, pushing the Royals organization to a 2-2 record in games viewed by the author. Not too shabby.
With the trip now in the rear view mirror (figuratively and literally, in a figurative sort of way), I am not sure I could have picked a better agenda for this vacation. I got to see plenty of baseball, watch some upcoming prospects, view a lot of scenery along the open road, encounter a variety of people, and absorb plenty of material for The Writings. There's just one thing to do now... Figure out where the Second-Annual Road Trip of Derek Larson will take me.
*Cough*LIAR*cough.
In our last post - which may be commonly referred to as The Epic of Derek, thanks to it's absurd length* - Derek traveled to Arkansas, caught a Double-A baseball game, was awaken by some sort of terrorist infiltration alarm, and traveled across Missouri into Illinois. As we pick things up in part 2 of The Epic, our protagonist is departing from his stay in Galesburg, Ill., and headed toward Clinton, Iowa.
*The Cliffs Notes will be available in bookstores soon.
News flash - I can be easily distracted. While I do not officially have Attention Deficit Disorder, at times I like to consider myself as an honorary member of the ADD society. With one task on my mind, the simple sight of something out of the ordinary ("Ooh, an Arby's!") can throw me off completely. This journey marks one such occasion, as it seems some sort of distraction led me to divert from my intended route. I pulled into a gas station, grabbed my road atlas, and attempted to gain my bearings. It was at this time that I found an alternate route guaranteed to be more scenic, as it would travel right along the Mississippi River. After a quick discussion with my navigator*, this new route was accepted, and I was back on track.
*I do my best to make talking to myself sound reasonable.
While the alternate route brought a bit of frustration, courtesy massive road construction efforts, it also brought provided the opportunity to assuage my inner gambler.
At the sight of a casino, I slammed on my brakes, swerved to the right, hopped a curb, parked illegally, jumped from my car and ran inside, shouting "ching, ching" all the way. Sprinting up to the nearest roulette table, I put $500 on red, only to see that little ball settle on 26 black. Discouraged, but not defeated, I continued to feed the gambling demon inside me, only to leave when I had lost all my cash and I discovered they wouldn't accept my scorecard from the Northwest Arkansas Naturals game as a bet. As a result, I currently live in the streets of Davenport, Iowa, and I'm typing this Writing from the laptop of a Starbucks customer who is currently in the restroom.
Remember when I said I can be easily distracted? Consider the previous paragraph as proof. In truth, as I drove through Davenport, I found that this area of town along the river seemed to be a pretty nice location. Thanks in part to the Holiday Inn's "You'll Wake Up and You'll Like It" alarm from the morning before, I was well ahead of schedule, so I decided to stop and check things out. I did go and check out the casino, however my gambling exploits were not as bold as those detailed above. Embracing my "wuss bets" nature, I played nothing but penny and nickel slots. I left with $6 less than I arrived with, and the knowledge that this particular casino was basically a retirement home with smoking, drinks, and slot machines. I'm pretty confident I was the youngest person there by about 40 years.
After departing the casino, I took a stroll along the river. It was there that I encountered a rather large (read: obese), shirtless man, who wore shorts that appeared to be a bit too small; a wanna-be singer who was having a friend snap pictures of her on the stage of an ampitheater, and another large man who was putting his shirt on as he walked toward the casino. None of this is really relevant at all, but I am glad the last guy was going to follow the "no shoes, no shirt" policy at the casino.
A scenic trip on Highway 67 brought took me to Clinton, where I found the need to adjust my initial plans for lodging. Such changes were deemed necessary when I discovered that the hotel I orginally planned to stay at was located next to three rough looking bars and a gentleman's club. I decided this lodging option did not meet my strict standards for overnight stay options*, and found an alternate option.
*Rule No. 1 - Don't stay someplace where the odds of you getting stabbed are 1:1.
After settling in, I was off to Alliant Energy Field to see the Burlington Bees attempt to sting the Clinton Lumberkings.
Hitting the highlights...
- The folks in Clinton seem to take the "park" in "ballpark" very seriously, as there seemed to be as many seats available at picnic tables around the field as there were in the stands. It gave the game the feel of a little league contest. Unfortunately, I did not witness any angry parents shouting from the stands or players sitting down in the outfield.
- The drop from Double-A ball to Single-A was noticeable. The stadium featured no video board, and names did not appear on jerseys, again contributing to a little league feel. Unfortunately, I'm unsure whether the teams went out for pizza after the game.
- During the eighth inning, the folks in the stadium PA box played the chicken dance. After watching those that participated, I determined this is the method used to determine who in the stadium is no longer sober enough to drive home.
- Instead of traditional ballpark vendors, this park featured waitresses walking around with serving trays and taking drink orders. I'm unsure whether LumberKings* management conducted studies to determine that drink sales increase when those in the stands feel like they're at a bar. If so, it seems that the next step is having a jukebox in the dugout and a pool table in the outfield.
*For those curious, it seems that a LumberKing is simply a lumberjack wearing a crown. I'm not sure how many lumberjacks in the world are actually of royal bloodlines, but it may be worth looking into.
- In regard to the actual baseball game that took place, Burlington picther Ivor Hodgson showed some pitches that moved as if they had minds of their own. He struck out 12 batters in just 5 2/3 innings. Burlington topped Clinton 6-4, putting Royals-affiliated squads at 1-1 on my trip.
Friday morning, I departed the wondrous city of Clinton on my way to Omaha, Neb. This trip called for driving the entire length of Iowa, from east to west. Luckily, I wasn't traveling alone. You see, a friend called rain decided to accompany me for a few hours that morning.
While the company provided by such precipitation was appreciated*, the rain and I decided to part ways before arriving in Des Moines. Because I had plenty of driving at hand and little time for detours, I drove Interstate 80 for the length of this trip. As a result, the scenery I witness on this journey could be summed up in one word: corn. By the time I reached Omaha, I was having a hard time distinguishing what was real and what was the result of cornfield overload hallucination. The Kellogg's Corn Flakes rooster on my shoulder telling me stop at every grocery store for Corn Flake goodness certainly wasn't helping, either.
*In the same way one appreciates a flesh-eating virus.
In Omaha, I found myself cursing the person who first came up with the idea of a one-way street. Driving through the downtown area, it seemed every turn I wanted to make involved going the wrong way on a one-way. With rebellion not being part of my nature, I fought such notions and drove through the city as if I was obeying a short-circuiting GPS unit. I don't consider it a good sign when you make it from one end of a city of 390,000 people to the other and still have no idea where you are going to be lodging. I'd say my meandering trip went unnoticed, but there are probably a few folks on street corners that noticed a car with Kansas plates drive by multiple times who would disagree.
After finally finding a place to lay my head that did not involve sneaking into the zoo, I was off to Rosenblatt Stadium.
I gathered from the souvenir program that the theme for the 2009 Omaha Royals is "Fun Rules!" Sadly, the Royals entered the contest sitting at the bottom of the Pacific Coast League. Fun may rule, but it apparently doesn't involve success.
One thing fun must involve is screaming, as the kids in attendance treated the game as if it were a Jonas Brothers concert. I'm not sure why a t-shirt toss calls for ear-crippling cries, but apparently it must be listed in the Fun Rulebook.
The Royals lost to the Las Vegas 51s, 6-4. Despite the losing effort, I enjoyed the chance to see the Triple-A Royals in action. For those unaware, Triple-A is the highest level of the minor leagues, meaning many players on this squad are one sprained ankle away from playing in Kansas City. The fact that the Triple-A version of the Royals is in last place, though, does not seem to say much for the immediate future for the major league club.
The big event following the game was a fireworks display, which I decided would serve as a replacement for the colorful explosions I missed seeing while away on business for Independence Day. This particular display proved noteworthy due to the soundtrack that accompanied the show. I'm not sure what exactly Ace of Base's "All That She Wants (is another baby)" or Inner Circle's "Bad Boys" (the theme from Cops) have to do with fireworks, but I'm sure there's an explanation out there somewhere. (Even if it involves a disgruntled employee.)
With my time in Omaha coming to a close, I discovered the following morning that the Days Inn in the city is apparently the preferred lodging for hobbits in the area. The showerhead was situated no higher than the top of my chest. I could handle such an issue, but I soon discovered another problem. It seemed that the hobbits that normally inhabit this room had an issue with hot water. The basic liquid intended to wash me reached a temperature no higher than that of soup that has been sitting out for a day. Before this trip, I knew I was not a morning person, but now I am wondering if mornings are taking offense to this fact. If I ever am run down by a steamroller that has been hijacked by an escaped gorilla, I am sure it will happen in the morning.
A Saturday trip to Kansas City gave me the chance to meet up with my brother and some close friends for the final baseball game of the trip - a battle between the Kansas City Royals and the Oakland A's at "The New" Kauffman Stadium.
While I can be considered a bit of a loner, (or a hermit,) I definitely enjoyed the chance for a little human interaction after days of talking to few ballparkgoers that would pass a sobriety test. I also relished the opportunity to take in the sights at the renovated stadium. It definitely impressed, and I'm looking forward to going there again for the chance to check out new Royals Hall of Fame.
During the game, I discovered one detail about Royals fans that cannot be argued: they're literate. Everytime the stadium video board urged fans to get "louder" or "make some noise" such instructions were followed as if they were military commands. A study of cause-and-effect relationships leads to the conclusion that fans must read the words on the board in order to comprehend them. Therefore, we have literate fans. I think there's a marketing slogan in there somewhere.
Royals ace pitcher Zack Greinke took the mound for the Royals, and while he gave up more runs than he does normally (three... which speaks to how dominant he's been this season), the offense offered a performance very out-of-the-ordinary, scoring 12 runs. An excellent capper to the Road Trip of Derek Larson. The Royals topped the A's 12-6, pushing the Royals organization to a 2-2 record in games viewed by the author. Not too shabby.
With the trip now in the rear view mirror (figuratively and literally, in a figurative sort of way), I am not sure I could have picked a better agenda for this vacation. I got to see plenty of baseball, watch some upcoming prospects, view a lot of scenery along the open road, encounter a variety of people, and absorb plenty of material for The Writings. There's just one thing to do now... Figure out where the Second-Annual Road Trip of Derek Larson will take me.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Tales from the Road - Days 1 and 2
Ahh, vacation. If only it could come along more often. It gives one the chance to escape the incessant drone of everyday normalcy. It gives one the chance to hit the road and see new things. It gives one the chance to be unexpectedly awoken at 5 a.m. and be instilled with a momentary fear that their life will end in Arkansas... but, I'm getting ahead of myself.
The inaugural Road Trip of Derek Larson kicked off Tuesday morning. Unforeseen circumstances (e.g., the need for a pair of new tires. Nothing like shelling out cash before you even approach any road the trip involves.), pushed departure time back a couple of hours, but I soon found myself heading southeast, like a migratory bird whose inner compass is slightly askew.
After venturing through thriving metropolises (metropoli?) like Gas, Kan.*, and (insert indistinct town name here), Mo., I arrived in Springdale, Ark.
*Pun not originally intended, but the author chuckled upon realization.
As one who enjoys the finer things in life.. such as television and flim, I have noticed that Arkansas is oft characterized as a state full of southern yokels who might be as likely to marry a pig as they would be to bathe. I fully expected this erroneous depiction to be rendered moot right away. Unfortunately, the man at the hotel counter chose to fuel the fire.
How so?
Let's just say the moon was bright in the Holiday Inn.
That's right, when I strolled into the hotel, the first thing I was greeted by was the sight of a large man bent at the waist so he could lean on the check-in counter, with his pants drooping a quarter of the way down his backside... Welcome to Arkansas, Derek.*
*While this story is true, most folks I encountered in Arkansas were very nice folks. I'd also like to stress that I saw no one married to a pig.
After Arkansas' Grand Canyon made his exit, I booked a room and that was that... Well sort of. This would normally be a rather mundane portion of the trip, but the guy working the check-in counter sounded identical to Jonah Hill, of Superbad (and other movies) fame. He also looked a bit like him, which made the situation even more eerie. I nearly asked him to say a line from one of his movies, but my better judgment won out. (Lousy brain.)
After some unwinding at the hotel, it was off to Arvest Field, to witness my first minor league baseball game. In post-game wrap fashion, we'll hit the highlights...
As I approached the stadium, I was greeted by the Arkansas branch of the Scottish National Guard. While I may have misidentified these gentlemen, their music was, well, bagpipey. Unfortunately, because I grew up watching professional wrestling, I paused for a bit waiting for Rowdy Roddy Piper to make an entrance. He never showed up.
Once inside, I strolled around the concourse to check things out. There was an autograph booth set up, with no line whatsoever. Like an eight-year-old at his first ballgame, I soon found myself asking two guys (both younger than me) for their autographs, even though I did not recognize their names. Afterward, I grabbed a hotdog and a soda (total price - waaaay more than they were worth. It seems that major league food prices still apply in minor league parks.), and found a picnic table in the shade to eat a bit. During this time, the folks controlling the pregame music decided it would be a good idea to play Eiffel 65's "I'm Blue." At this point I found myself trying to decide whether it was done on a bet, or if the "DJ" had enjoyed a few pregame drinks. I'm still not sure what was going on.
After eating, I reluctantly left the comfort of the shade to find my seat. I discovered one big positive about minor league baseball - excellent seats for low cost. The above picture was taken from the comfort of seat 16 in row D. Unfortunately, that line of shade was still 30 minutes away at this point.
For those interested in the actual baseball aspect of this experience, the game featured the Northwest Arkansas Naturals (the Kansas City Royals' AA affiliate) and the Tulsa Drillers (the Colorado Rockies' AA affiliate). Sitting four rows back from the field with my Royals cap on, I figured I might encounter others sporting something similar. I figured wrong. I spotted no other fans wearing any sort of gear promoting the big league club. In fact, I only spotted two other people in the stadium wearing anything relating to Major League Baseball at all. One was wearing a Ryne Sandberg Cubs jersey, the other donned a Vernon Wells Blue Jays t-shirt. I hope to one day figure out how fan gear of a Hall of Famer who retired 12 years ago and a guy who plays in Canada relates to that particular contest in Springdale... Some day.
As the game progressed, I was reminded that some baseball terminology is easier to decipher than others. This reminder was generously provided by the absolutely clueless woman sitting directly behind me. Perhaps the baseball geek that often fuels my thinking is the only one that would notice this, but she incorrectly used the phrase "1-2-3 inning" twice in a three-inning span. For those that might be unaware, a "1-2-3 inning" is a half-inning in which all three outs are recorded in consecutive fashion. No hits. No walks. No catcher interference. Nothing but outs. This vocal fan, who seemed to always make sure all around were listening to her, deemed one inning that of the 1-2-3 variety, despite the fact that only two outs had been recorded. A couple innings later, she pulled the phrase out again, even though a hitter had singled earlier and had been standing on first base - just 20 yards away from her, for a few minutes. The situation served as a strong reminder that one should only speak knowledgeably of a subject if they actually are knowledgeable of said subject.*
*Editor's note: The author has been reminded that he often uses this very space to write about subjects he knows virtually nothing about. Forgive him. He's a little slow.
As the game carried on, I noticed that I was the only - ONLY - individual seated in my entire row. Granted, the ballpark certainly wasn't full, but this seemed excessive. There were 18 seats, but just one seat filler. That situation dissolved when a quartet of guys arrived a few minutes. These four, who all appeared to be around 30 and were downing beers like the keg was almost empty, seemed to have their pick of seats in my section. They chose my row, which was fine. They chose my end of the row, which was fine. They chose the four seats directly to my right. This was a bit odd. I seached the depths of my mind in attempt to think of a situation where I might have invited four heavy drinkers to come to the ballgame with me. The search drew no results.
For the next few innings, I was "treated" to their "side-splitting jokes" and "hilarious mockery" of the opposing first base coach... Okay, enough of the sarcasm, these guys were basically the baseball fan versions of any obnoxious drunk you may have ever encountered. Their "jokes" consisted of little more than talking about how the first base coach was not in the coach's box (although they laughed like the Full House laugh track every time it was mentioned), and their taunting of the coach did not turn out so well. You see, Tulsa's first base coach was also the hitting coach, and the Drillers scored 11 runs on 16 hits. Advantage: coach.
The sudsy crew left before the end of the game, as did most other fans. Before they left I caught a t-shirt thrown by Strike the Naturals' mascot, despite the fact that Norm (made up name for inebriated individual next to me) was draped over me like an NFL defensive back. At this point I did a touchdown dance, shoved the shirt in his face, and told him to bring his 'A' game next time... In reality, I listened to his slurred ramblings, showed him the shirt he almost had, and sat back down to continue keeping score. Sorry, readers who enjoy personal conflict, I'm mild-mannered.
The picture above tells the story. One game on The Road Trip of Derek Larson down, one Royals-affiliated loss witnessed. Nevertheless, there were a few players I was impressed with. If I had to pick four names of players to keep an eye out for in years to come, I'd say David Lough (centerfielder), Jarrod Dyson (leftfielder), Jeff Bianchi (shortstop), and Juan Abreau (relief pitcher, hit 96 on the radar gun).
Back at the hotel, I soon felt like I was losing another battle. I discovered that my lodging place of choice did not feature free Internet access or a free breakfast for the following morning, and the pillows on my bed were thicker than most couch cushions. When lying in bed, I felt as if my neck was being contorted in impossible ways.
Luckily*, I didn't have to deal with these substandard conditions for long. At 5:08 a.m. the next morning, I awoke to the sound of an alarm the likes of which one hears on television when some sort of secure goverment facility has been infiltrated by evil-doers. Thanks to a working knowledge of the television show '24', I realized that nothing good comes about when CTU security is breached, so I had little chance to survive at a Holiday Inn. I listened to the voice accompanying the alarm instructing all to head downstairs via the stairway, got dressed in rattled fashion, grabbed a couple belongings, and took off for the lobby.
*Is luckily the right word?
In the lobby, I encountered a bevy of other hotel occupants looking as disheveled as I was. What was the emergency? Who had broken in? Where was the fire? The questions were tossed about. The answer was that it all was well. While it was a relief to hear, it was also a bit disturbing to hear the hotel employee refer to the false alarm situation as something that happens "periodically."
Pardon? Full moons happen periodically. False alarms in a hotel that instill all staying there with a sense of unrest at an early hour should not.
Now awake a full three hours earlier than I had originally planned, I chose to embrace opportunity and hit the road.
Planned as a rather uneventful travel day, after the morning's surprise, this day reverted to the uneventful route as I rolled out of Arkansas, all the way across Missouri and into Illinois. The highlights:
- When ordering a CroisSonic sandwich and a cherry Sprite for breakfast at Sonic, the communications specialist on the other end of my order decided it would be a good idea to ask if I would like mozzerella sticks, as well. Hmmm... deep fried cheese first thing in the morning. Tempting, but I had to pass.
-Prior to this trip, I had no idea that there was a city called Mexico in Missouri. Having never been to Mexico (aside from the "New" version of it), I had stop in. Erring on the side of caution, I chose not to drink the water.
- I discovered that western Illinois has some of the worst highways I have ever encountered. The state of their roadways is downright shabby. You know the feeling when you are clinking along as you climb the initial slope of a roller coaster? That's similar to the bumpy sensation I encountered on several highways in the western part of the state.
Two days, and nearly 2,000 words later, it's time for bed. Here's hoping morning arrives a bit later tomorrow.
The inaugural Road Trip of Derek Larson kicked off Tuesday morning. Unforeseen circumstances (e.g., the need for a pair of new tires. Nothing like shelling out cash before you even approach any road the trip involves.), pushed departure time back a couple of hours, but I soon found myself heading southeast, like a migratory bird whose inner compass is slightly askew.
After venturing through thriving metropolises (metropoli?) like Gas, Kan.*, and (insert indistinct town name here), Mo., I arrived in Springdale, Ark.
*Pun not originally intended, but the author chuckled upon realization.
As one who enjoys the finer things in life.. such as television and flim, I have noticed that Arkansas is oft characterized as a state full of southern yokels who might be as likely to marry a pig as they would be to bathe. I fully expected this erroneous depiction to be rendered moot right away. Unfortunately, the man at the hotel counter chose to fuel the fire.
How so?
Let's just say the moon was bright in the Holiday Inn.
That's right, when I strolled into the hotel, the first thing I was greeted by was the sight of a large man bent at the waist so he could lean on the check-in counter, with his pants drooping a quarter of the way down his backside... Welcome to Arkansas, Derek.*
*While this story is true, most folks I encountered in Arkansas were very nice folks. I'd also like to stress that I saw no one married to a pig.
After Arkansas' Grand Canyon made his exit, I booked a room and that was that... Well sort of. This would normally be a rather mundane portion of the trip, but the guy working the check-in counter sounded identical to Jonah Hill, of Superbad (and other movies) fame. He also looked a bit like him, which made the situation even more eerie. I nearly asked him to say a line from one of his movies, but my better judgment won out. (Lousy brain.)
After some unwinding at the hotel, it was off to Arvest Field, to witness my first minor league baseball game. In post-game wrap fashion, we'll hit the highlights...
Once inside, I strolled around the concourse to check things out. There was an autograph booth set up, with no line whatsoever. Like an eight-year-old at his first ballgame, I soon found myself asking two guys (both younger than me) for their autographs, even though I did not recognize their names. Afterward, I grabbed a hotdog and a soda (total price - waaaay more than they were worth. It seems that major league food prices still apply in minor league parks.), and found a picnic table in the shade to eat a bit. During this time, the folks controlling the pregame music decided it would be a good idea to play Eiffel 65's "I'm Blue." At this point I found myself trying to decide whether it was done on a bet, or if the "DJ" had enjoyed a few pregame drinks. I'm still not sure what was going on.
After eating, I reluctantly left the comfort of the shade to find my seat. I discovered one big positive about minor league baseball - excellent seats for low cost. The above picture was taken from the comfort of seat 16 in row D. Unfortunately, that line of shade was still 30 minutes away at this point.
For those interested in the actual baseball aspect of this experience, the game featured the Northwest Arkansas Naturals (the Kansas City Royals' AA affiliate) and the Tulsa Drillers (the Colorado Rockies' AA affiliate). Sitting four rows back from the field with my Royals cap on, I figured I might encounter others sporting something similar. I figured wrong. I spotted no other fans wearing any sort of gear promoting the big league club. In fact, I only spotted two other people in the stadium wearing anything relating to Major League Baseball at all. One was wearing a Ryne Sandberg Cubs jersey, the other donned a Vernon Wells Blue Jays t-shirt. I hope to one day figure out how fan gear of a Hall of Famer who retired 12 years ago and a guy who plays in Canada relates to that particular contest in Springdale... Some day.
As the game progressed, I was reminded that some baseball terminology is easier to decipher than others. This reminder was generously provided by the absolutely clueless woman sitting directly behind me. Perhaps the baseball geek that often fuels my thinking is the only one that would notice this, but she incorrectly used the phrase "1-2-3 inning" twice in a three-inning span. For those that might be unaware, a "1-2-3 inning" is a half-inning in which all three outs are recorded in consecutive fashion. No hits. No walks. No catcher interference. Nothing but outs. This vocal fan, who seemed to always make sure all around were listening to her, deemed one inning that of the 1-2-3 variety, despite the fact that only two outs had been recorded. A couple innings later, she pulled the phrase out again, even though a hitter had singled earlier and had been standing on first base - just 20 yards away from her, for a few minutes. The situation served as a strong reminder that one should only speak knowledgeably of a subject if they actually are knowledgeable of said subject.*
*Editor's note: The author has been reminded that he often uses this very space to write about subjects he knows virtually nothing about. Forgive him. He's a little slow.
As the game carried on, I noticed that I was the only - ONLY - individual seated in my entire row. Granted, the ballpark certainly wasn't full, but this seemed excessive. There were 18 seats, but just one seat filler. That situation dissolved when a quartet of guys arrived a few minutes. These four, who all appeared to be around 30 and were downing beers like the keg was almost empty, seemed to have their pick of seats in my section. They chose my row, which was fine. They chose my end of the row, which was fine. They chose the four seats directly to my right. This was a bit odd. I seached the depths of my mind in attempt to think of a situation where I might have invited four heavy drinkers to come to the ballgame with me. The search drew no results.
For the next few innings, I was "treated" to their "side-splitting jokes" and "hilarious mockery" of the opposing first base coach... Okay, enough of the sarcasm, these guys were basically the baseball fan versions of any obnoxious drunk you may have ever encountered. Their "jokes" consisted of little more than talking about how the first base coach was not in the coach's box (although they laughed like the Full House laugh track every time it was mentioned), and their taunting of the coach did not turn out so well. You see, Tulsa's first base coach was also the hitting coach, and the Drillers scored 11 runs on 16 hits. Advantage: coach.
The sudsy crew left before the end of the game, as did most other fans. Before they left I caught a t-shirt thrown by Strike the Naturals' mascot, despite the fact that Norm (made up name for inebriated individual next to me) was draped over me like an NFL defensive back. At this point I did a touchdown dance, shoved the shirt in his face, and told him to bring his 'A' game next time... In reality, I listened to his slurred ramblings, showed him the shirt he almost had, and sat back down to continue keeping score. Sorry, readers who enjoy personal conflict, I'm mild-mannered.
The picture above tells the story. One game on The Road Trip of Derek Larson down, one Royals-affiliated loss witnessed. Nevertheless, there were a few players I was impressed with. If I had to pick four names of players to keep an eye out for in years to come, I'd say David Lough (centerfielder), Jarrod Dyson (leftfielder), Jeff Bianchi (shortstop), and Juan Abreau (relief pitcher, hit 96 on the radar gun).
Back at the hotel, I soon felt like I was losing another battle. I discovered that my lodging place of choice did not feature free Internet access or a free breakfast for the following morning, and the pillows on my bed were thicker than most couch cushions. When lying in bed, I felt as if my neck was being contorted in impossible ways.
Luckily*, I didn't have to deal with these substandard conditions for long. At 5:08 a.m. the next morning, I awoke to the sound of an alarm the likes of which one hears on television when some sort of secure goverment facility has been infiltrated by evil-doers. Thanks to a working knowledge of the television show '24', I realized that nothing good comes about when CTU security is breached, so I had little chance to survive at a Holiday Inn. I listened to the voice accompanying the alarm instructing all to head downstairs via the stairway, got dressed in rattled fashion, grabbed a couple belongings, and took off for the lobby.
*Is luckily the right word?
In the lobby, I encountered a bevy of other hotel occupants looking as disheveled as I was. What was the emergency? Who had broken in? Where was the fire? The questions were tossed about. The answer was that it all was well. While it was a relief to hear, it was also a bit disturbing to hear the hotel employee refer to the false alarm situation as something that happens "periodically."
Pardon? Full moons happen periodically. False alarms in a hotel that instill all staying there with a sense of unrest at an early hour should not.
Now awake a full three hours earlier than I had originally planned, I chose to embrace opportunity and hit the road.
Planned as a rather uneventful travel day, after the morning's surprise, this day reverted to the uneventful route as I rolled out of Arkansas, all the way across Missouri and into Illinois. The highlights:
- When ordering a CroisSonic sandwich and a cherry Sprite for breakfast at Sonic, the communications specialist on the other end of my order decided it would be a good idea to ask if I would like mozzerella sticks, as well. Hmmm... deep fried cheese first thing in the morning. Tempting, but I had to pass.
-Prior to this trip, I had no idea that there was a city called Mexico in Missouri. Having never been to Mexico (aside from the "New" version of it), I had stop in. Erring on the side of caution, I chose not to drink the water.
- I discovered that western Illinois has some of the worst highways I have ever encountered. The state of their roadways is downright shabby. You know the feeling when you are clinking along as you climb the initial slope of a roller coaster? That's similar to the bumpy sensation I encountered on several highways in the western part of the state.
Two days, and nearly 2,000 words later, it's time for bed. Here's hoping morning arrives a bit later tomorrow.
Monday, August 03, 2009
So Long, Suspense
If you, as a reader of The Writings, know one thing about me, as the author, it is that I love suspense.*
*Please note: This isn't really true at all, but it sets things up nicely for the rest of this Writing. It seems I am willingly to make things up in order to have a fitting lead. That's a quality people look for in a writer, right?... Right?
The fact is, updates here at The Writings have been few this summer because I have embracing suspense.*
*It also seems that I am willing to openly lie in this Writing. After all, the lack of blog updates this summer has had far less to do with suspense than with a busy schedule mixed with a dose of laziness. Oh well, let's see where lies and deceit get us.
You see, on June 29, the author used this very blog to announce an upcoming roadtrip and to seek advice for possible destinations. Over a month later, that post has drawn a ridiculous amount of feedback*, and people everywhere have impatiently waited to find out just where this roadtrip would take me*.
*Lies. A few people gave suggestions, either in print or in person, but they may very well be trying to get me to leave and never return.
**More lies. On the big list of things people are concerned with, "Derek's Roadtrip Plans" fall just after "establishing a book club for homeless snails."
Well, faithful readers, wait no more. The roadtrip has been determined, and it is one with a theme. I'll be seeing four baseball games in five days, witnessing four levels of the Kansas City Royals' organization (A, AA, AAA, and the big league club) along the way. That's right, four ballgames in five days, and every one of them related to the Royals. It seems the theme of this trip is rather self explanatory.
I'm a glutton for punishment.
I kid. The great thing about baseball is that there's always hope.*
*Disclaimer: This does not apply if your starting rotation features Mark Redman, Scott Elarton, and Odalis Perez.
Road trip plans involve a lot of baseball, a lot more driving, and some opportunities to note all the wonder one might encounter when traveling through Kansas, Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Nebraska.*
*Hello, excitement.
*Please note: This isn't really true at all, but it sets things up nicely for the rest of this Writing. It seems I am willingly to make things up in order to have a fitting lead. That's a quality people look for in a writer, right?... Right?
The fact is, updates here at The Writings have been few this summer because I have embracing suspense.*
*It also seems that I am willing to openly lie in this Writing. After all, the lack of blog updates this summer has had far less to do with suspense than with a busy schedule mixed with a dose of laziness. Oh well, let's see where lies and deceit get us.
You see, on June 29, the author used this very blog to announce an upcoming roadtrip and to seek advice for possible destinations. Over a month later, that post has drawn a ridiculous amount of feedback*, and people everywhere have impatiently waited to find out just where this roadtrip would take me*.
*Lies. A few people gave suggestions, either in print or in person, but they may very well be trying to get me to leave and never return.
**More lies. On the big list of things people are concerned with, "Derek's Roadtrip Plans" fall just after "establishing a book club for homeless snails."
Well, faithful readers, wait no more. The roadtrip has been determined, and it is one with a theme. I'll be seeing four baseball games in five days, witnessing four levels of the Kansas City Royals' organization (A, AA, AAA, and the big league club) along the way. That's right, four ballgames in five days, and every one of them related to the Royals. It seems the theme of this trip is rather self explanatory.
I'm a glutton for punishment.
I kid. The great thing about baseball is that there's always hope.*
*Disclaimer: This does not apply if your starting rotation features Mark Redman, Scott Elarton, and Odalis Perez.
Road trip plans involve a lot of baseball, a lot more driving, and some opportunities to note all the wonder one might encounter when traveling through Kansas, Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Nebraska.*
*Hello, excitement.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Lessons Learned - The Indianapolis Edition (pt. 1)
The fact that I recently spent some time in Indianapolis for work purposes has been well-publicized... on this blog. It was no secret that, while away, I was really looking forward to returning home. Upon hearing that, many people would often assume that I do not enjoy traveling. As a mascot head-wearing football analyst might say, "Not so fast, my friends." The truth is, I do enjoy traveling... when one is actually able to absorb the environment they're in. The trip I just completed did not allow such opportunities. The only thing I was really able to absorb was the atmosphere of the convention center in which I spent around 13 hours each day. By the end of each day, I could not have provided any sort of area weather report, but I could have easily directed you to the nearest restroom or water cooler. (Refreshing.)
While this trip may have been more bogus journey than excellent adventure*, there were a few lessons learned. Naturally, I find it my duty to pass these lessons along to as many people as I can reach. (The 1.5 readers of this blog.) The first such lesson comes in this writing. (Sorry for the brief post, but it seems that television is somewhat addicting when it comes in HD form and there's much less time in a week when you have five Harry Potter films to catch up on).
*Yes, we at The Writings are fluent in Bill & Ted-ese.
Street toughs are born that way.
During a rare opportunity to actually stretch my legs outdoors in the downtown area, I found myself sauntering down a city block, only to see a crew of inner-city teens headed my way. Pants were sagging, shirts were missing, and tattoos were prevalent. It seemed like a group that could normally be a bit intimidating to someone from a small town. However, there was one thing askew. Amidst the visible boxer shorts and icy cold glares, there rolled a stroller.
That's right, a stroller.
I have seen many portrayals of the street life in my day. They have come via television, film, and Michael Jackson music videos. One might think it would be hard to come by something that seemed more out of place than some youths having a dancing knife fight (before settling their differences thanks to more dancing), but this stroller struck such a cord with me. As I walked by, I was tempted to walk up to the stroller to see if the little tike inside was wearing a sagging diaper or had any baby tatts. Luckily, common sense won out and I kept to myself. I'm not sure how small of size brass knuckles come in, but I doubt it would be worth finding out.
While this trip may have been more bogus journey than excellent adventure*, there were a few lessons learned. Naturally, I find it my duty to pass these lessons along to as many people as I can reach. (The 1.5 readers of this blog.) The first such lesson comes in this writing. (Sorry for the brief post, but it seems that television is somewhat addicting when it comes in HD form and there's much less time in a week when you have five Harry Potter films to catch up on).
*Yes, we at The Writings are fluent in Bill & Ted-ese.
Street toughs are born that way.
During a rare opportunity to actually stretch my legs outdoors in the downtown area, I found myself sauntering down a city block, only to see a crew of inner-city teens headed my way. Pants were sagging, shirts were missing, and tattoos were prevalent. It seemed like a group that could normally be a bit intimidating to someone from a small town. However, there was one thing askew. Amidst the visible boxer shorts and icy cold glares, there rolled a stroller.
That's right, a stroller.
I have seen many portrayals of the street life in my day. They have come via television, film, and Michael Jackson music videos. One might think it would be hard to come by something that seemed more out of place than some youths having a dancing knife fight (before settling their differences thanks to more dancing), but this stroller struck such a cord with me. As I walked by, I was tempted to walk up to the stroller to see if the little tike inside was wearing a sagging diaper or had any baby tatts. Luckily, common sense won out and I kept to myself. I'm not sure how small of size brass knuckles come in, but I doubt it would be worth finding out.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Needed: Ideas for a road trip... You can make a difference.
As those with sharp eyes (read: people who can read and comprehend the blatantly obvious) may have gathered from recent Writings, I've been a bit busy lately. Unfortunately for the author, "lately" will also extend for the next 12 days. (Not that anyone is counting.) Nonetheless, there is a light at the end of this tunnel. That light, although it seems as dim as a penlight in a spelunking expedition right now, is still putting forth a tiny glow. That tiny glow represents the vacation I'll take later this summer.
Currently*, the plan is to hit the road and take a trip to check out some new locales. Unfortunately, I don't really have any good ideas as to where to go. Big cities are out of the running, as it seems that visiting the sites of a big city would be better suited for traveling with a companion. (That, and I drive like a cataract-suffering grandmother in heavy rush-hour traffic.) Traveling to Cooperstown to visit that Baseball Hall of Fame is also a no-go, as that is a trip being saved for another occasion. I have been to Nebraska, Missouri, and Colorado on many occasions, and therefore must also eliminate them from road-trip consideration. I won't drive to Canada, as I will not consider having to adhere to the metric system two summers in a row. I also refuse to consider going anywhere overseas... You see, this is a road trip, and I'm fairly confident my car will not stay buoyant enough to float across the ocean.
*"Currently" could transform into "formerly, should fuel prices rise to the point that one cringes at the thought of filling their gas tank.
As you can tell by now, I really have no direction (literally and figuratively) concerning where I should travel on this trip. This is where you come in, oh valued reader. Delve into the deepest crevices of your mind and suggest a potential stopping point for the DLRT09*. You can suggest a state, a city, a small town, a tourist trap, a restaurant, a relative you would like a message delivered to, a trip theme, a list of roads to avoid, the number of miles I should drive with my eyes shut... You can pretty much suggest anything.
*Derek Larson Road Trip '09... It's the best I can name the trip without an actual destination in mind. It was either that, or "The Quest to Locate Some Semblance of Sense."
My hope is that the trip will provide plenty of material for a blog that has been severely neglected in recent weeks. It may not admit that its feelings have been hurt, but the fact that it's been playing Boyz II Men's "Water Runs Dry"* on a loop lately has me thinking something might wrong. It puts up a tough front, but in reality it's a very fragile blog. It seems that a cross-country trip where I'm sure to encounter "people in your neighborhood" and plenty of "things I don't understand," may be just what is needed to get things around here clicking again.
*Most optimistic estimate - This reference will confuse all but about three people that might read it. Hopefully, those three people appreciate it.
If you have any roadtrip ideas whatsoever, pass them along... Not for me. For The Writings.
Currently*, the plan is to hit the road and take a trip to check out some new locales. Unfortunately, I don't really have any good ideas as to where to go. Big cities are out of the running, as it seems that visiting the sites of a big city would be better suited for traveling with a companion. (That, and I drive like a cataract-suffering grandmother in heavy rush-hour traffic.) Traveling to Cooperstown to visit that Baseball Hall of Fame is also a no-go, as that is a trip being saved for another occasion. I have been to Nebraska, Missouri, and Colorado on many occasions, and therefore must also eliminate them from road-trip consideration. I won't drive to Canada, as I will not consider having to adhere to the metric system two summers in a row. I also refuse to consider going anywhere overseas... You see, this is a road trip, and I'm fairly confident my car will not stay buoyant enough to float across the ocean.
*"Currently" could transform into "formerly, should fuel prices rise to the point that one cringes at the thought of filling their gas tank.
As you can tell by now, I really have no direction (literally and figuratively) concerning where I should travel on this trip. This is where you come in, oh valued reader. Delve into the deepest crevices of your mind and suggest a potential stopping point for the DLRT09*. You can suggest a state, a city, a small town, a tourist trap, a restaurant, a relative you would like a message delivered to, a trip theme, a list of roads to avoid, the number of miles I should drive with my eyes shut... You can pretty much suggest anything.
*Derek Larson Road Trip '09... It's the best I can name the trip without an actual destination in mind. It was either that, or "The Quest to Locate Some Semblance of Sense."
My hope is that the trip will provide plenty of material for a blog that has been severely neglected in recent weeks. It may not admit that its feelings have been hurt, but the fact that it's been playing Boyz II Men's "Water Runs Dry"* on a loop lately has me thinking something might wrong. It puts up a tough front, but in reality it's a very fragile blog. It seems that a cross-country trip where I'm sure to encounter "people in your neighborhood" and plenty of "things I don't understand," may be just what is needed to get things around here clicking again.
*Most optimistic estimate - This reference will confuse all but about three people that might read it. Hopefully, those three people appreciate it.
If you have any roadtrip ideas whatsoever, pass them along... Not for me. For The Writings.
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