1990s and early 2000s writing

Preamble - last week of May, 1997

I need a vacation. Badly. Consider the following events of the last week, ladies and gentlemen of the jury:

In the space of two days, three of my Rotisserie League team's outfielders went on the disabled list with injuries, thus putting my team out of contention for yet another year. (My fellow Rotisserie general managers can barely stay in the same room with me without giggling uncontrollably. "You call that a pitching staff?" they say, rolling on the floor and clutching their sides. I hate them. I hate baseball. I hate life.)
After a frustrating day at work, I come home to discover that there is no water in my apartment. My landlord is a great guy, but sometimes he's a little absent-minded; my downstairs neighbours and I determine that he simply forgot to pay the water bill. I travel to the local McDonald's to use the washroom, and brush my teeth with the dregs of bottled water containers. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.
I get into my trusty 1986 Tercel (Zippy the Wonder Sauna) that same evening, and discover that neither of my headlights are working. My high beams work, but nothing else. As I go to McDonald's to use their washroom (see Point Two), I alternate between not using my headlights at all (and getting flickered at by passing drivers), or using my high beams (and getting flickered at by passing drivers). The next day, I take the car into the shop; the helpful repair person (Rocco at Firestone) tells me that both my headlights have simply burned out. "Simultaneously?" I ask. Apparently so. I direct them to fix them for me, even though I know that a Real Man does the job himself. (Real Men don't have to deal with Toyota Tercel headlights, which require magnetized screwdrivers and Japanese-like persistence and patience to install. Real Men wouldn't drive ancient Japanese subcompacts, anyway.)
We have spent all spring in the midst of what, weather-wise, is termed an "arctic inversion." I'm not sure precisely what this means. I do know it's windy and rainy all the time, and that the Yukon has warmer weather than we do. By late May, the temperature has reached shirtsleeve levels exactly once, and we still need central heat at night. Argh, brrr, etc.

So, dear reader, I think you'll believe me when I say that I need time away from it all. So, off we go...

June 3, 1997 - Toronto to Syracuse, N.Y.

I resolve to travel light for this trip: just one suitcase, one travel bag, rollerblades and helmet, one extra bag for the books I know I will buy, one bag containing my CDs, my camera, a bag for my film... Fortunately, Harry and Ann have rented a spacious mini-van, with room enough for five ever-expanding people in their mid-thirties plus all of their gear. Armed with optimism and a full tank of gas, we set out in the general direction of America.

This is the Burgery, the most notable feature of St. Catharines, Ont.

Business cards from a display case in St. Catharines. Please patronize these establishments.

As we cross over at Niagara Falls, I realize something I had forgotten: I am whitebread, and I sunburn easily. Really, really easily. After a couple of hours, my right hand gets sunburned just from sticking it out the window occasionally. My fellow travellers are amazed as I, cursing, slather my arms liberally with SPF 29. (If a nuclear bomb is detonated in the vicinity of Rochester, New York after I coat myself with SPF 29, I will die horribly, but I will die with lily-white skin.)

Western New York placenames feature a classical motif: we pass through Greece, Egypt, Macedon, Montezuma, and Brutus, New York. We also pass through Kuckville, but sadly miss out on Busty and Kill Buck.

His wife and kids, on the other hand, support the Packers.

Stopped for lunch in the Macedon Hills Family Restaurant, mostly because we were desperately hungry; usually, the words "Family Restaurant" are to be avoided at all costs. Sure enough, this restaurant features ugly green and purple naugahyde seats, and a woodburned sign on the wall reading "Families are Forever." Despite this, the food is good and the wait staff is pleasant, and there are no screaming children.

Early notes on Americans and America:

If you say "thank you" to a Canadian, the response is "you're welcome." The equivalent response in the U.S. is "uh huh."

If the menu says you get chips with your sandwich, that's what you get -- potato chips.
Houses in western New York have wood on the outside. Southern Ontario houses almost always have a brick finish.
Slow drivers are often found in Volvos.
If a neighbourhood contains a deaf child or blind person, a sign is posted on the highway warning passersby of that fact. A nice touch.
Dead end streets are marked with "No Outlet". (In Canada, the Sartre-like "No Exit" is used.)
If you play James Cotton on your CD player when driving through the suburbs of Rochester, it feels exactly like the opening credits of a movie starring John Cusack.

Our plan on this trip is to drive on sideroads whenever possible, as the Interstates provide very little in the way of scenery. (I-90, the main drag in Western New York, is particularly boring.) Despite our leisurely route, we still arrived in Syracuse at 5 p.m., as there were very few Volvos on the road.

Cutesy signs spotted en route:

A small-town clothing store called "Avant Garbe." Worse: a car parked in front of the store featured the license plate "GR8GARBS."
In Newark, N.Y., the local hairdressing salon is called the "Hairport," and is advertised using the sign "NOT BECOMING? BECOMING HERE."

We also spotted a barn with BARN written on it.

Tonight's ballgame features the Syracuse SkyChiefs (won-lost record 16-38) against the visiting Ottawa Lynx (15-37). A fan, filled with optimism, reminded his neighbour that "we're only 19 games out of first."

P & C Stadium (named after a local grocery chain) features artificial turf, presumably because the parent Blue Jays also play on turf. It's ugly, as is the rendition of the national anthem by "international recording star" Benny Mardones. Benny is fond of over-emoting; his "air" in "The bombs bursting in air" contains no fewer than seven syllables, and the final "brave" modulates into three separate keys. I choose not to go to the concourse level to get his autograph.


	Two views of P & C Stadium.

The weather is cool, but otherwise perfect for baseball; there is absolutely no wind, and our seats are right by the visiting dugout. The visiting Lynx tee off on Syracuse starter Huck Flener, and a group of drunken fans tee off on visiting first baseman Ryan McGuire. "Why don't you catch it in fair territory, you wuss?" "Your mother was a Chippendale, you wuss!" McGuire responded to this constructive criticism by whaling the tar out of the ball; one fan, ruefully, points out that "this guy's making us look ridiculous." (McGuire was called up to the big leagues two days later.) The drunken fans' favourite player was Syracuse outfielder Lorenzo Delacruz, who was invariably greeted with "ZO! ZO! ZO! ZO!"

I think this may be a mating ritual.

The highlight of the game was Lynx outfielder Hensley "Bam Bam" Meulens. Before the game started, Bam Bam spotted a gap-toothed small child in the stands, and asked him whether he had brought his glove tonight. Two innings later, he tossed the kid an autographed baseball. He also tossed autographed baseballs (pebbles from Bam Bam?) to two young women sitting in the front row; they seemed willing to be his dates for the evening, if you get my drift.

Every inning, a lucky number program draw was held. I just missed winning a gift certificate for the Crossroads Tavern ("hot wings, warm beer, lousy food"), because my number was off by 3.

An ad for the Crossroads Tavern. Yum!

I'm grateful that I live in a country with subsidized health care.

June 4, 1997 - Syracuse, N.Y. to New Britain, Conn.

Wake up ridiculously early in the morning, as my room is positioned near an exit door. Why do people have to get going at 5 in the morning? And why must they make so much noise when they do so? And why must I have "ZO! ZO! ZO!" running through my head?

Went for a stroll in the neighbourhood near the Super 8 Motel in which I was staying. Almost all bungalows. Some houses have screen doors for their garages; I've never seen that before, and I never see it again. Many houses also have brightly-coloured flags hanging over their front doors; these flags are almost always bright blue with yellow flowers. Spot an old man wandering down the street wearing stocking feet and carrying a colostomy bag. Resolve never to complain about anything again, ever.

We eat at a local Denny's; breakfast is served promptly by Eleanor 2 (that was the name on the bill). Dave, as per usual, orders a generous breakfast. Huge. Gargantuan. If I were to eat a breakfast this large, my bowels would stop for weeks.

Now they tell me.

We march through upstate New York, continuing eastward. We pass the Riverview Motel, where I spent a quiet and thoughtful evening when I first went through here in 1985. At the time, the motel was in the middle of nowhere, the television was broken, and I had nothing left to read except the Gideon Bible left in the room long ago (by a clean-cut gentleman with slicked-back hair and wearing a neatly pressed brown suit, no doubt). It was a rainy night, and the motel was nearly empty, which led to thoughts of the meaning of life and death; it was a Moment. Now, the neighbourhood is all built up, and there is a 24-hour Wal-Mart across the street. Thomas Wolfe didn't know the half of it: not only can't you go home again, you can't even go away again.

We pass the Blackhead Mountains (site of the well-known horror movie Eruption at Zit Peak), making good time due to the absence of Volvos.

More thoughts on America:

Power mowers. Americans drive power mowers. Nobody else in the world drives power mowers. (Rich Canadians hire landscape services; everybody else grunts it out.)
"Package store" is used as a genteel euphemism for "liquor store". Even we Canadians aren't fooled.
If you dislike cutesy stores, my advice is to avoid the "Shoppe of the Angels" in Norfolk, Conn.
Lost World (Jurassic Park II) is showing at every single cinema complex in America. Every last one.
Most common sign in Connecticut: ROAD WORK AHEAD. FINES DOUBLED.

Avon, Conn., is full of upscale chic little nooks. Olde Tyme Collectibles. Tweeter Audio-Video. Amazing Glace Paint-your-own-pottery Emporium. The Pampered Bath. Little Angels Infant-Toddler Preschool. All storefronts are fake woodsy and nouveau riche. If I lived there, I'd go berserk with a machine gun within weeks.

Arrived at the Super 8 Motel in Mystic, Conn. (where Julia Roberts became famous making pizzas). All Super 8 Motels look alike, but this one is special: this one has McRoom Service (oh, sorry: it's McRoommmmm Service). Just lift your phone, and young teenagers with zits will deliver Chicken McNuggets right to your door.

Arrive at New Britain Stadium, home of the New Britain Rock Cats (also known as the Hardware City Rock Cats, as this is the home of the Stanley toolmaking empire). Like the Syracuse stadium, this is a spanking new ballpark, with lots o' plastic. Still, it's nicer than Syracuse, and the weather is still perfect for baseball. We discover that we are in the middle of a doubleheader: last night's game was postponed, and rescheduled for today. Whee! One and a half games for the price of one!

New Britain Stadium.

The concessions feature yummy clam chowder and tolerable hot dogs, and the obnoxious fans are on the other side of the park this time.

Since this is Class AA baseball (one rung lower than Syracuse), we have the inevitable Dizzy Bat Race. Two kids are invited onto the field and are each told to hold a bat upright, place their forehead on it, spin around ten times rapidly, and then race to first base (where the club mascot, Rocky the Rock Cat, awaits them). The winner is the child who can overcome disorientation first. Projectile vomiting leads to immediate disqualification.

Small children out to watch the game.

June 5, 1997: New Britain, Conn., to Norwich, Conn.

Shorter drive today. Wound up at Rocky Neck State Park in Lyme, Connecticut, as it was the only beachfront area that was not strictly private. (To someone like me, raised in "collectivist" Canada, a private beach seems like a waste. Of course, that may be because I don't own one.) The park is clearly equipped to handle thousands of local sun-worshippers; given that it was midweek and school was still in, it was virtually deserted - only a few bored teenagers and us.

The entranceway to the park features several miles of flat, smoothly paved road. To me, this meant a serious, and desperately needed, rollerblading opportunity. Without it, days of ballpark food would have put my waistline right out there where I can see it, which would have seriously interfered with my deluded belief that I can stay young and thin forever.

Lyme, Conn., is the home of Lyme disease, which is contracted through tick bites. The more nervous members of our party (oh, all right: me) spent a large part of the afternoon examining my, er, ourselves for bloodsucking ticks. (You have your hobbies, and I have mine.)

After one kind of bloodsucking, there was another: four of us went off to Foxwoods Resort Casino, a huge gambling joint located on the Mashantucket Pequot Tribal Nation land. (In America, except for places like Las Vegas and Atlantic City, gambling casinos are always on native reservations. I assume it's a legal thing.) Lots of plush carpeting, bright lights, old people, and simply acres of handicapped parking. I lost $10 on the poker machines, and considered it well worth the investment, just for the experience.

The Norwich Navigators, the home team for tonight's game, are a farm team of the Yankees. (In Connecticut, the w in Norwich is pronounced, not silent.) It may be a coincidence, but Norwich was the place where management seemed most determined to extract as many dollars as possible from the paying customers. The plastic seats were closer together than at other parks; this made watching a game a less pleasant experience for tall or big people. In addition, the scorecard was sold separately, as opposed to being included in the souvenir program.

Senator Thomas J. Dodd Memorial Stadium, the home of the Norwich Navigators.

The park itself is located in the middle of an industrial park in the middle of nowhere, and is situated on top of a hill. This last is bad planning: it gets colder up there on cool spring nights. The temperature (shown on the scoreboard) started at 60 degrees, and gradually dropped; when it reached 50, it mysteriously stayed there, despite the fact that we could see our breath; I think this was a PR move. The fans weren't fooled: cries of "Has anybody got any mittens?" and "I'm moving to Brazil!" were the order of the day.

A visiting Phillie whispering sweet nothings to his beloved.

After all this dissing, I should point out that the fans and staff were friendlier here than at any of our other stops. We got a special welcome from the PA announcer, and Harry was invited to take part in a between-innings promotion: had he thrown a ball through a (fairly small) hole on a board ninety feet away, he would have won a new car. He got impressively close to getting new wheels - closer than anyone else had all year, and close enough to impress the regular patrons into murmuring in surprise.

Harry showing off his pitching form.

Common promotional stunts and/or crowd ralliers at ballparks:

Playing "YMCA" over the PA system.
Playing "Day-O".
Playing "Centerfield" by John Fogerty.
The Dizzy Bat Race (see previous day).
National anthems sung by small children who can't quite hit the high notes.
Giant Dice: roll the same number on each of the two waist-high dice, and you win a prize.
Blind Fan Contest: a fan is led onto the field and blindfolded; an envelope containing free tickets is placed just outside his reach. The crowd is instructed to direct him to the tickets. (Today's fan couldn't find them until they were placed on his back.)
The Dirty Car promotion: the license plate of the dirtiest car in the parking lot is announced over the PA system, and its owner is entitled to pick up a gift certificate redeemable at a local car wash.

Two young women in T-shirts. They remained in T-shirts throughout the game; the rest of us were wearing an average of 2 1/2 sweaters each.

Norwich also featured the "Rubbish Ranger", who was a young man dressed in mask and cape whose job it was to go around the park picking up trash. Another employee walked around with a giant cardboard Coca-Cola can strapped to his back. ("What - and leave show business?")

And, as a public service: For Tony's well-drilling service, call 1-800-45-DRILL. Operators are standing by.

June 6, 1997: Norwich, Conn., to Pawtucket, R.I.

Awakened in the middle of the night by a loud domestic dispute outside my window, featuring rebel yells by the male protagonist and assorted complainings by his better half. The cops were called to sort it out. By the time everything quieted down, I discovered that I had the raving munchies. The only thing open in Groton, Mass., in the middle of the night is the International House of Pancakes. I learned that it is possible to eat a turkey sandwich (complete with mashed potatoes and stuffing) while still asleep. The IHOP appears to be the local late-night teen hangout - the restaurant is completely full, and I am by far the oldest patron of the establishment. Sigh. (I'm still getting used to the fact that baseball players my age are basically all washed up.)

Sign on lawn, as we drive into Rhode Island: BOB HOPE STOPPED HERE, MAY 1992.

Did you know that there is a jai-alai palace in Newport, R.I.?

Arrive in Pawtucket, with the sounds of the Back To God Hour, part of the Life-Changing Radio Network. This week's program is "Renewing Your Mind," a lecture by R.C.Sproll. I kind of enjoyed it, though I wasn't grasping all of the theological nuances.

We arrive in Rhode Island with more than enough time to explore Horsehead Beach. This involves a long long walk, a delicious lunch entirely composed of clam-based products, and another long walk back. As before, there is virtually nobody out here, which is a very good thing.

Harry on the beach.

I found this washed up near a rock.

Check in at the Super 8 Motel, and strike up a conversation with a man from Burlington, Vermont (Blue Jay announcer Tom Cheek's home town). Upon discovering we are from Toronto, he sourly comments on Roger Clemens' resurgence (a common topic in New England, I gather - eat your heart out).

McCoy Stadium, in Pawtucket, is the first old-time stadium we've been to. It was built in 1942, and has all of the classic features of traditional ballparks -- exterior entrance ramps, steeply raked seating, virtually no legroom whatsoever, no crazy promotional stunts, sloooooow infield grass, short dimensions (only 380 feet to center) and lots and lots of atmosphere. It feels like there's more fans in the ballpark than there really are, though that might be because there are a lot of kids in the park.

	Two views of McCoy Stadium.

The kids chant "WE WANT A HIT" over and over and over again, for God's sake, and they are rewarded: the visiting Syracuse SkyChiefs don't pitch any better than they did last Tuesday, and give up eight runs in the second inning. The Jays aren't going to get any pitching help from the farm any time soon.

The scorecard features an ad offering an ingenious scam: a Major League Ballpark Recognition Kit, which is targeted at diehard fans. The Recognition Kit features a Recognition Certificate with a "colorful, eye-catching stadium motif border" and a "personalized Ballpark Register that serves as a 'living record' of travels to stadiums, new and old, around the country." What the florid prose tries to conceal is that they are attempting to get you to pay $24.95 for two pieces of computer-generated paper (for the 8 1/2 x 11" Certificate; the legal-size "Deluxe Kit" will cost you $34.95). Caveat emptor!

June 7, 1997 - Pawtucket, R.I. to Binghamton, N.Y.

Breakfast at McDonald's (sigh). They have egg and bacon on a biscuit. Actually almost delicious, and my arteries needed toughening up anyway. One customer there looked frighteningly like the young Walter Matthau. The resemblance was eerie. After breakfast, we drive past scenic Lake Chaubunagungamaug (also known as Webster Lake, for those wimps who don't wish to risk tongue dislocation).

By now, I'm almost used to being short on sleep. Since I'm not required to do any driving (indeed, I have no responsibilities at all), I can just float along in a daze with my head lolling against the window. This is, in fact, the ideal way to experience the Massachusetts Turnpike, as it's rather boring. The only scenery of note is a seemingly endless stream of trucks, jeeps, hum-vees, and other military vehicles heading west. The entire U.S. Army appears to be heading the same way we are. Did Bill Clinton decide to invade Canada while we were gone?

Leave the turnpike, and re-enter New York State. Pass through Shinhopple, New York and Deposit, New York, and hence into the Catskills. Summary of Catskills: trees, reservoir, mountains. The Catskills are less closed-in than the neighbouring Berkshires.

When you are a tourist, you are required by law to take pictures of scenic vistas.

Binghamton, our destination for the evening, is a lovely small city enclosed in a valley. The ballpark is an ambitious new stadium: for years, Binghamton hosted a Class-A team, but has recently moved up to Class AA. This may be a risky venture, as there is virtually nobody in the park. (A threat of rain doesn't help matters much.)

If this is Saturday, this must be Binghamton.

Our seats for the game are really good: front row beside the visitors' dugout. In fact, they are so good that paying attention to the game is not only an enjoyable task but necessary for one's physical health. In the third inning, a foul ball is hit down the first base line heading STRAIGHT FOR ME. If I were a Real Man, I'd've leaned over the railing and fielded the ball barehanded and with aplomb; in the real world, I froze like a deer caught in headlights, and I was fortunate that the ball caromed off the top of the (waist-high) wall and out of harm's way. (I often react this way when confronted with hard-hit projectiles, which is why my front teeth are made of highest-quality plastic.)

I predict a future of lower back pain for all concerned.

June 8, 1997 - Binghamton, N.Y. to Buffalo, N.Y. and then home

It's my birthday today. I'm 37. Whoo-hoo!

Since we have to reach Buffalo before 2 p.m., we head back out onto the Interstates again. We make good time, but at the cost of a lack of entertaining, picturesque scenery. We spot several dead deer, one empty billboard spray-painted with pro-McVeigh slogans (I couldn't react fast enough to photograph it), and several more official U.S. Army vehicles, all still heading west. ("All right, men! On to Lackawanna!")

Trip to Buffalo is uneventful, and the downtown core is pretty much built up now. (In the past, downtown Buffalo used to look like a bomb had been dropped on it.) Drive past Garcia's Irish Pub and the headquarters of Channel 7 News. To people growing up in the Golden Horseshoe, Channel 7 News immediately conjures up memories of Irv Weinstein reporting yet another fire in North Tonawanda. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry about it. (Aside to those of you who did grow up here and are of a certain age: remember the Fantasy Island commercials with the obnoxious kids screaming "Fun? WOW!"? There - now try to get that image out of your heads.)

After chowing down on free samples of Stouffer's French Bread Pizza, we arrive at what used to be called Pilot Field but is now (sigh) North AmeriCare Park. (The name "AmeriCare" is an example of what Paul Fussell calls BAD.) Yet another baseball bonus: an earlier rainout means that we get to see two games today. And there's more: our ticket stub entitles us to a second hamburger for the price of one at any Wendy's location in Western New York, except Batavia.

Pilot Field - oops, sorry, North AmeriCare Park.

The Buffalo Bisons have two official mascots: a large mascot named Buffalo Chip, and a smaller one named (wait for it) Microchip. (Rimshot.) Spotted a man wearing a T-shirt with the message "GIVE BLOOD. PLAY HOCKEY."

Section 114, presently unoccupied.

The weather is perfect for baseball, but by now we're all a little baseballed out. Most of us have brought books into the park, and are reading between innings. None of us even look up when the P.A. system belts out the inevitable rendition of "YMCA".

Women. Nachos. Security. What else could you want from life?

Between games, a group of mascots play the Mascot Baseball Game. Crash test dummies serve as base umpires, and the official mascot national anthem is the Macarena. (I am not making this up.)

Pick-off play.

During the second game, I received free birthday ice cream; Ann and Harry had contacted customer service before the game. It was a pleasant surprise, and it was yummy. So was the barbecued chicken sold at the concession stands. (I plan on never eating another hot dog again, if I can help it.)

Man unaware that his child's head is being eaten by a balloon.

Fourteen innings later (doubleheaders in the minors are seven innings each), we hop into our van and return to our native country. While we like America, we all breathe a sigh of relief upon arriving back in Canada. It may not be much, but we call it home.

Things I learned on the trip:

It's hard to sleep soundly in Super 8 Motels.
You don't really need sleep, provided you don't have to drive.
Americans, on average, are larger than we are.
The Skids' "Scared to Dance" is a great song.
Hurtling down the highway on a bright sunny day while listening to Tonio K.'s "H-A-T-R-E-D" is an enjoyable experience.

Thanks for reading - I hope you enjoyed my trip as much as I did, and I hope you ate better.