STAR WARS, NOTHIN' BUT STAR WARS...

My nephew Rick and I attended the Star Wars Celebration III in Indianapolis over the four-day weekend. What a disaster, both organizationally and weather-wise! We ended up scaling back our expectations, and still managed to have a good time. Here are the highlights and lowlights.

WORST PART: The organization, sure. But that lack manifested itself into horrible lines for everything, including an average of two hours just to get into the building (and we're talking about the special "fan member" line here). Once you got into the building, it took another two hours to get into any presentation (except George Lucas', which took all night or cheating or being-in-the-right-place-at-the-right-time) or an average of seven hours to get into the Celebration III store.

MOST UNPREDICTABLE: The Weather. I did forecasts every day for a month leading up. The last forecast, which was Tuesday for our Wednesday flight, showed rain only on our travel day, and mid-sixties for the rest of our stay. I didn't bring a jacket. When we got there on Wednesday there was no rain, and it was balmy. It rained the rest of the weekend, and even snowed on Sunday. The wind, which came in on Saturday, brought the weather down to the 20's.

SECOND MOST UNPREDICTABLE: Which line will they let in? When will they let them in? If we stand in the non-fan line will we get in any faster? If we stand in the SkyWay (leading to the hotels and mall), will we get in at a decent rate and be warm and dry? The staff did not communicate, and we had no clue from day to day as to what the rules are. The FAST PATH system, publicized so that you did not have to wait on line to get into the Celebration III Store, had an empty booth all weekend; they never employed it.

MOST DISAPPOINTING TO MOST FANS: The inability to purchase Celebration III exclusive merchandise. I predict that only about half the attendees, if that, made it into the store. The lines averaged 7 hours. We waited for the last day, Sunday, as we knew a lot of people would be going home; however, they were out of most things by that time (except the Darth Vader figures).

BEST THING ABOUT THE WHOLE CONVENTION: The fans....most of them wore costumes!! And we're not talking sacks on their bodies. Most of the costumes were outstanding! We couldn't walk 10 feet without wanting to take a photo of these walking advertisements for their favorite film(s)!

2ND BEST THING ABOUT THE WHOLE CONVENTION: The fans...we could talk to them and find out what they knew, compare notes, etc. We met one guy and his nephew right behind the woman and her nephew (us). We found several very short and young Darth Vaders out there. Lots of inventors standing very proudly next to their own constructed R2D2's. The guy who drove in from Tennessee for one day who wanted to know if anyone could get into the store for him (no).

THE BEST PRESENTATION: This is a tough one. We only made it to about 20% of the presentations, because we didn't have two hours to spare in line for each one. But I would have to say that the whole Behind-the-Scenes crew were incredible: The Art Department (all 7), the Visual Effects Supervisor (John Knoll), the martial arts expert who taught Hayden Christensen and Ray Park how to fight. The best was Executive Producer Rick McCallum, who brought an incredible visual opera with him to show us the new footage from Revenge of the Sith. Wow!

BEST COSTUME: Almost impossible to say. There was one woman with her blue tube-like structures falling off her head. Some very tall, very imposing Darth Vaders. A Chewbacca that made your hair stand up on your neck (and his as well). And a Slave Girl Princess Leia that made all the young men file behind her as she walked, bottomless, through the convention area.

BEST PLACE TO RELAX: The Touchdown Lounge, home of the season ticket holders of the Indianapolis Colts. The Lounge was an informal place for fan club members (yeah, right) to relax, eat a hot dog, and enjoy the crew members and actors who came by to review your portfolio or to have pictures taken with you, respectively.

BEST STANDSTILL EXHIBITION: The Exhibit of actual Star Wars props, which included the original landspeeder model from Episode 4, an array of light sabers from Episode 6, and several models of the Milennium Falcon.

SECOND BEST STANDSTILL EXHIBITION: The R2 fan room, a very small enclave with fan-constructed robot units. One very popular addition was the carbonite-enclosed Jar Jar Binks. But everybody loves R2D2 and the exhibit boasted one of the originals being in his own special spot, surrounded by about 30 fan-made R2's.

WORST FIASCO: Oooh, there were so many. But most would say the inability to get into the Celebration III store. No one really thought of eBay until you couldn't get any Darth Vader talking figures; once that happened, everybody who did wait the obligatory day to get in would sell their other three (you were allowed to buy four) on auction.

MOST HYPED EVENT: The Celebration Opening Ceremonies. It took three hours of waiting in line to get towards the front (we were off to the side in about the 6th row) only to be greeted by a salsa band that was too loud, and Steve Sansweet introducing a bunch of lesser stars. Not one major star came to the event. We hear, though, that the Celebration Party on Saturday night may have been worse...

I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO COLD while waiting in snow flurries on Sunday morning. Wind chill factor brought the temps down to 20 degrees. I bought hot tea and/or chocolate, not to drink but to keep my hands warm.

The force was not with this convention (or at least the organizers), but we still had a memorable time.

COMPRESSING BREASTS, PART 2

I was right, at least on the one score: they did call me back for a second mammogram. However, this time, the people at the x-ray and mammogram center explained to me what was going on. She even showed me the result on the screen. She told me, "There's something there -- you can see it right here. They want to do an ultrasound on you to see what's going on." So I followed her down the hall at this early hour on a Thursday, and lay there while the new technician squirted cold goop on my right breast and expertly wielded the wand over the area. She stopped when she found it. She said, "I'm going to take a picture of this," and "I'll be right back."

While she was gone, I took a peek at the screen. It was a large screen and I know I was looking at a small area enlarged, but there in the middle of the striations was a mass that looked the size of Jupiter's spot, although all in black and white. It sat there, imperiously. While I stared at it, I thought about what was going to happen next. Actually I couldn't stop that train of thought the entire time she was gone from the room -- it couldn't have been more than 5 minutes, but the train kept moving down the track and eventually off the cliff.

I would next undergo a biopsy, I thought. Then, if it's positive, they'll call me in for treatment. Probably some heavy-duty chemo pills. Maybe some radiation. Intense stuff. I could stand my hair falling out, I thought nonchalantly. That wouldn't bother me. When they do the radical mastectomy, I don't think I'd mind that either. However, it's the lopsided-ness, the fact that....could I ask them to do the other one, too? But just then my ghoulish thoughts were interrupted when the tech re-entered with Dr. Bain.

Dr. Bain chewed me out royally when I told him that Kaiser had found a problem about a decade ago, and kept sending me form letters to appear again and again. He moved on, though, to "We want to do a biopsy right away. We'll let your doctor know. But why don't we set that up today." I was very appreciative of a quick decision. I have always preferred to DO something rather than just sit there. When I made the appointment for Tuesday, I was only regretful that I had to wait the weekend.

And wait is right. It didn't sit well with me. I was really good, I thought, at being in denial during the colonectomy, during the time they found cancer in my colon and cut the damn thing out. I went in thinking it would be minor surgery and that I'd recover completely. It wasn't but I did. But now I was beginning to worry. The 2nd time with my history: doesn't bode well. Still, I'll deal with it.

How I dealt with is, I went straight to Trader Joe's and bought a bucket of chocolate. Chocolate-covered nuts plus three candy bars, all sugar-free but all chocolate. An hour later, I was rather sick. And I knew why.

Maybe I'm getting better at recognizing my fears and feelings. Maybe that's why I ended up telling, oh, six or seven friends. (Actually it wasn't that many, but Pam spread the news and then asked afterwards if that was okay. It was. I wanted a little sympathy, not a lot, and maybe even a few prayers floating my way.)

I took the early appointment again on Tuesday, and was there ahead of time with my newspaper. But they didn't waste any time and I didn't get half into how the A's lost their home opener miserably when Dr. Bain appeared and explained the procedure to me. I love it when they explain things to me. She had had me mark the correct breast with a sharpie (boy, that stuff doesn't erase easily), just so, she explained, they don't explore the wrong breast. Since I was awake the entire time, I doubt that could happen. Actually, I couldn't even watch the doctor do his exploration, aided by the ultrasound, which was guided by the technician, as my right arm had to be placed over my head. That was the worst pain I felt during the entire procedure, forcing this seldom-used arm over my head for a period of about 45 minutes.

Dr. Bain told me that the item/mass/structure (he never really called it anything, but I have to pick a noun) was small but deep. I liked "small" even if I didn't like "deep." His plunger picked out 4 samples, and I was done. What a professional job. Now my own job was to wait two days for the results to come in.

At 1:08 pm on Thursday I called the doctor's office, knowing I would never get through to Dr. Schweitzer. But her nurse talked with me, said there was nothing in my chart, but would call the mammography center to check things out and call me back. She did within 5 minutes. "The report was on the doctor's desk," she sighed, and told me the results: "It was benign."

Hey!! What good news!! I thanked her, then hurriedly got on email and told everybody the news. I regretted a bit that I had told these people. Nephew Ricky wrote me back instantly that the news was wonderful and that "I can stop worrying now." That broke my heart. I wrote him back that I never wanted him to worry. "But I realize I didn't do a good job of telling you about the colon surgery last time. I think I was in denial." I promised to do better next time.

Will there be a next time? Two-and-a-half years out of colon cancer. A blip in my right breast. Perhaps. Maybe even probably. I'm going to pay better attention in the future. This denial stuff can get me into real trouble.

I called my friend Rick, who was back in Savannah for his mother's funeral. "I'm so happy about your autopsy results!" he exclaimed happily. "It was a biopsy, not an autopsy. I'm not dead yet," I laughed.

If you're reading this and wondering if you should (1) have a mammogram, and (2) have a colonoscopy, the answer lies in discussions with your doctor. If you're at all at risk -- have a history of cancer in your family, or are over 40 -- the answer is definitely "yes." Please consider having a simple procedure that will put your mind at ease.

Resist denial. It's futile.

Spring Training, Day 1: March Madness of Our Own

I awoke eager and ready to go at 2 a.m. on Wednesday morning, March 16th, Shawn and I picked Rick up at 4 a.m. at his home in Fremont, and sped off to Oakland Airport, where Shawn dropped us off at the deserted curb, a full two hours before the flight.

Standing in the Southwest “A” line, we met a very tall, portly gentleman who, due to the green outfits we were wearing, immediately spotted us as Oakland Athletics baseball fans. He said that he was going to Phoenix on business, but that he was also meeting some of his family. “We’ll go to some spring training games, but the part I’m excited about it seeing my granddaughters, who are 8, 10 and 14.” He said that the eldest was a fast speed softball pitcher currently being recruited by Cal.

When we got on the Southwest flight, we thought we had a half-empty flight. However, right before they were about to close the doors, 20 very tall men in uniform walked onboard: the St. Mary’s basketball team. The team was ranked 20th, and was headed for the national championships in “March Madness,” the great basketball tournament in Oklahoma. They looked too tall for the plane, and kind of confused at 6 a.m., but they finally found seats and we took off.

The guy sitting next to me was from St. Mary’s, obviously thrilled to be going to the tourney, but a bit older and seemingly wiser than his mates. I figured he was an assistant coach, not a player. He mentioned that the reason they were delayed in boarding was because all 20 had had their airline tickets purchased for them at the last minute, meaning yesterday, which is a security alert for TSA officials. Also, he said, “We have a guy from Morocco. They stop him every time.”

I handed him the Sports section from USA Today, as I never read it. (Not enough local sports, mostly Yankees and Red Sox.) As we were being served our drinks on the flight, he said, “Cool! There’s something about one of our players on Page 1.”

When Rick mentioned Moneyball in our conversation, my seatmate said quietly that “we do a lot of the same things when we recruit.” I countered, “Okay, Billy Beane and the A’s look for players who score a lot of walks. How does that equate in basketball?” He answered that walks equals stats in basketball that aren’t tallied, like passing. A player who passes well, moves the ball down the court, would be prized by a team like St. Mary’s. I don’t know much about college basketball, but I assume that St. Mary’s, then, is like the Oakland A’s in that they don’t have the money or reputation to get the hotshots when they recruit, so, as my new friend told me, “We look for players no one else wants, maybe they’re 5 foot 2 or something but they play really well.”

We wished the St. Mary players well, and went on to our own sports adventure. When we got off the plane at 9 am, we talked about whether we should go and check in at the hotel or go straight to the stadium. We decided quickly, hell, let’s go straight to the ballgame even though they don’t open until 11 a.m.

We followed mapquest for the 5 miles in search of the stadium. “It’s gotta be here somewhere,” I said, looking rather worried, as all we could see were one-story industrial buildings. “Where are the signs? Where is the place?” Finally we found the parking sign. The stadium was right next to the parking, but it wasn’t very large. Rick told me, “Linda, this isn’t Candlestick or the Coliseum. It’s small.” And so I’m learning to think “small” for all things related to spring training. The park itself is wonderful, an amalgam of steel and concrete. It only seats 9,000. We arrived two hours early, and watched the place fill in.

We immediately got a hot dog, because, when you wake up at 2 a.m., you get hungry by 11. We were climbing the two steps to our level when Rick slipped and his hot dog wienie flew out to the left, above his head, into an arc, and landed on his back. The bun, filled with mostly mustard flew out to his right and landed on my shoe. I quickly cleaned the mustard off my shoe, while Rick, muttering to himself, went off to find a new hot dog. When he returned, we settled in and watched batting practice. There were still only about 3 people in our section at that point. But one of them crept quietly up to us, handing Rick his napkin. He said, in a hushed tone, “You have a lot of mustard in your hair…”

Rick started yelling at the players right away, as he often does during the regular season. “C’mon, Ruby!” “Blue, punch a hole in that mask!” But I noticed people in our section were staring at him. Apparently games in spring training are a bit laid back, and the players as well as the fans are mellower. There’s not much intensity, no tension, if your team is behind by a run. The games don’t mean anything. The game is a mosaic of the veterans getting ready and the rookies struggling to make the team.

This particular game was a demonstration of the A’s superior pitching and hitting, at least against the hapless San Diego Padres in this instance. Kirk Saarloos, who was the starting pitcher, was hit hard a few times, but only gave up one run, the only run of the game. We then saw a slow parade of pitchers from both sides, including a few I’ve never heard of. Eric Byrnes, playing stellar left field, put on a hitting display. Jason Kendall, our new catcher, seems unstoppable, getting at least two hits before he came out. All of the boosters in our section were interested to see who would end up at 2nd base, as Mark Ellis was back, and apparently so is his bat. However, we are also Marco Scutaro fans. And there’s a third in contention, but he’s not a fan favorite. The A’s, in toto, looked ready to start the season today. But this was just one game.

Spring Training, Day 2: The Wearin’ of the Green

We immediately agreed upon seeing each other the next morning that we were both having fun and just as eager for this second day of spring training to begin.

At the Embassy Suites breakfast that morning, a buffet affair that is really pretty marvelous, we saw Candi. Candi arranged this whole outing for the Oakland A’s boosters, something that arose several years ago simply because her husband refused to do spring training unless it was cheaper. I was amazed to hear that 142 boosters had come to Arizona under her plan! Candi is a high-energy woman of 60, large in life in personality and body, with glorious white hair in a pixie cut. “The hair is just beginning to come in. It used to be blonde,” she said, almost wistfully. “I just ended my year of chemo. My next operation is the day after we get home from Phoenix.” When we said how sorry we were to hear that, she added quickly, “Oh, well, putting this trip together was wonderful therapy. I’d sit at my computer in my underwear at night when I couldn’t sleep or eat, and pound out the details of the trip. It kept my mind off my body.”

The boosters were quite upset when the Oakland A’s decided to abandon the Embassy Suites for the Marriott. The Embassy Suites gives a free breakfast, a suite containing two rooms and two T.V. sets, and free happy hour (for 2 hours) plus snacks. It was hard to beat. So, the boosters just let Candi do her thing in putting the package together and went with her rather than the official Oakland A’s program.

We weren’t exactly celebrity hunting at spring training, but one fan in our section pointed out Peter Gammons, the sportswriter and columnist, sitting in the press box just above our section. He was obviously by himself, working hard on his laptop. I was wondering what he was doing at a spring training A’s game. Which player caught his interest? I looked up at the press box in the 7th inning, and he was gone.

Today is St. Patrick’s Day, and apparently it’s a celebrated day in baseball. There are actually St. Patrick’s Day hats issued by the teams. I had a fun time trying to spot the different ones, all green with the team moniker on the front and maybe a shamrock on the back. But the surprise for me was that the Cubs had green hats on when they played! The A’s, of course, already wear green hats, so no change for them. When I mentioned to Rick that I had never seen this nod to the Irish before, he said, laughing, “Well, you’ve never been to spring training before.” That’s right – St. Patrick’s Day would only occur during spring training.

Everyone at Phoenix Municipal Stadium today seemed to be in a festive mood. It was a little warm at game time, but the sun disappeared behind the clouds in a couple of innings, and the game went on during coolish weather, still in the high 60’s. The stadium seemed bursting, and they were mostly Cubbie fans.

We actually witnessed a real game this time. We were impressed that the A’s were able to get 2 runs off Greg Maddux in the 3rd, but disheartened that the Cubbies scored 5 runs against Rich Harden, one of the stalwart starters for the A’s. The Cubs won the game, 6-4. I was thrilled to see that we would watch Keiichi Yabu, a Japanese player that the A’s picked up during the break. The reliever told us at Fanfest that “I am not afraid to pitch inside.” However, he was hit a bit during the two innings we watched him today. Closer Dotel came into the game in 9th, and shut them down, but the A’s players, who were mostly invitees at this point, could not make up the two-run deficit. Still, seeing new guys Bobby Smith and Jermaine Clark, two minor leaguers who have been running around in the league for a good nine years apiece, was worth the price of admission. And rookie Bocachica made a spectacular catch in the outfield.

There were frequent conversations in the section today about the A’s players, which ones should stay, who should be sent down to AAA. The woman in front of us, Norma, was probably in her 70’s with a hairdo that reached for the sky and never moved. I figured she would never place a cap on that hair. Her opinion was that Byrnes should stay, because she liked him, and that we should definitely keep Marco Scutaro, one of the three vying for the 2nd base position, because he was the best looking guy on the team. Rick really stirred things up, though, when he mentioned that Eric Byrnes was on the chopping block, that he’s being shown in spring training as trade bait. The fans in Section K were really angry about this, and fought to keep him. However, Rick’s argument was that we have three established players in the outfield; in fact, the A’s brought up right fielder Nick Swisher from Triple A at the end of the season in 2004, and transferred in outfielder Charles Thomas from the Braves. Norma thought that Nick was lame and should be sent down….maybe even to Double A. She would be a cruel but swift manager, and didn’t see the need to wait and see what each player could do.

But in fact, we’re all managers. The average age of the Boosters is probably 65+, and they’re all opinionated about each player’s abilities and place in the A’s organization. We’re all experts, and we take these things personally. We get personally involved in these players’ careers. We may not know all the information revealed in Billy Beane’s office, but we act as if we have all the facts when we have an opinion about his moves. Hey, we can read stat sheets, too.

We attended the buffet dinner in the Embassy Suites Courtyard, put on by Candi and her committee, after the game. We found the table with our names, and helped ourselves to the free drinks which are served in the Embassy Suites bar every night between 5:30 and 7 pm.

During dinner we all talked about the players we had seen. Ken, the A’s Booster Club President, sat at our table and had tons of opinions about the players. Ken, in his longish graying hair and prominent mustache, used to be in law enforcement, a cop in Washington State, for over a decade when, as he put it, “I just burned out.” He is now a biker, and proudly showed us his business card which featured a picture of him on his Harley.

After dinner, they had a raffle of at least 30 items, and Rick won an A’s watch while I won a Mark Ellis-signed baseball cap. By the time we got back to the room at 9 pm, I was exhausted.

Spring Training, Day 3: Maryvale Tries Harder

Everyone in the breakfast line this morning had an opinion about the Congressional hearings on steroids. That is, the men seemed to have opinions about it, while the women were talking about comfort issues (the hotel, the food, complaining about the line, etc.). The man behind us felt strongly that all sports should adopt measures similar to the Olympics, because “everyone can make a mistake” once, but after that, they should be banned from the sport. Actually, most people we talked to about the steroid scandal leaned this way. The younger male fans were definitely interested in the testimony of the players, while the older male and most of the female fans thought the whole thing was an irritant, a plague on the sport, and wished it would just go away.

Today’s game was against the Milwaukee Brewers at their own stadium. So today Rick and I would venture out with mapquest directions in hand, looking for Maryvale Stadium. It’s thrilling to me that we’ll be able to visit four ballparks while we’re here: Phoenix, Maryvale, Scottsdale (where the Giants call home), and Surprise (Texas Rangers). It’s good to have a rental car, although most of the senior citizens on this trip do not. Candi is taking care of them: she has arranged for vans to take them to the game for a small fee. “I’m going to be switching to motorhomes next year,” she said, proudly. She wanted to make sure the boosters would make it to the stadiums in comfort.

We found Maryvale pretty easily, driving along 3 freeways past downtown Phoenix to a flat neighborhood along 51st Street. The stadium is recessed into the ground, and doesn’t rise above the walk-in level, except for the press box. We waited a good 45 minutes, however, to get in and have our bags searched, as security didn’t open the gate until 11:45 am. We had been told at the dinner last night that Maryvale security members really search the bags, and don’t allow food or water in. “You might be able to get a small water in,” said one booster who had been to spring training many times before. But that’s it. Security members looked into the bag, but didn’t disturb the two small waters we had. We were among the first ones in.

Maryvale Stadium is only used six weeks a year, just for spring training. It’s a wonderfully small, compact park, but the playing field and players seem much more accessible than Phoenix Municipal. Foul territory is skinnier, and those fans who pay $6 a pop can sit on the grass, a hill right beyond the outfield wall which goes around the entire stadium. We were able to walk completely around the stadium. While Maryvale seats 7,000, it seemed much smaller. About 7300 showed up for this game, but it didn’t seem completely full. This is so far my favorite baseball park. Warm, friendly, small like a minor league park.

They try harder, too. During every inning break, they threw t-shirts or bobbleheads or batting helmets into the audience. They passed out trading cards and certificates for a free ice cream sundaes to many fans as well. And the piece de resistance was a race between sausages. Women in huge sausage outfits ran by the fans (Polish won), and then signed autographs for the little kids on the concourse. Welcome to Milwaukee West.

The game itself was a pretty good one, especially if you’re an A’s fan. As before, we got to see several starters in the beginning, and they were gradually replaced by the 2nd string and then the Invitees. The starting pitcher today was Dan Haren, and he gave up only 3 hits in five innings, no runs, an outstanding performance. Another error was made by 2nd baseman Keith Ginter, who must be feeling the pressure. Eric Byrnes had a couple of hits. Huston Street did very well, pitching two innings of relief.

Every time number 22, Eric Byrnes, came up to bat, or even to the batting circle, the little old lady next to me, who was probably 75 years old or more with a Lucy Ricardo red-frizzy hairdo, would yell, “Yeah! You go, Byrnes!” Then she said to her friend sitting next to her, “Doesn’t he have the cutest tushie?”

I told Rick as we were watching that I was pulling for Jermaine Clark to make the club. He, like Bobby Smith, has been batting around the minor leagues for about 9 years. Time is running out. At that moment, a younger A’s fan sitting behind us said that he saw Jermaine at the bar at the Embassy Suites last night. “The Embassy Suites?” I said in disbelief. “Yep,” he said, “he even bought me a beer. He seemed like a nice guy,” went on the young fan, who seemed to be in his early 30’s and used to be a ballplayer himself. “He’s been around awhile. He seems to be treating this like a job. Which is too bad.” Jermaine was put in as a pinch runner, scored a run, and then had a hit two innings later.

The announcer told us that Prince Fielder was coming to bat in the 8th inning. “Prince Fielder,” said Rick, “had better be a good player with that name.” The young man in back of us told us that he was Cecil Fielder’s son, trying to make it to the big leagues. Cecil, of course, was the spectacular first baseman for the Detroit Tigers.

Rick was kidding with several members of the section about Prince Fielder. Rick told the group, “There’s no way he’s going to steal. He’s built like his father.” The fan in front of us turned to us and pointedly told us, “He’s going to steal second.” The A’s fan in back of us retorted, “Yeah, he’s going to steal….his lunch.” However, at that moment, Fielder took off from first and stole second, easily. The Mariners fans in front of us started howling and pointing at Rick, and Rick was a good sport about it. They loved it! It was a great moment in fan bonding.

After the game ended, we found Candi, who told us that she was going to run by Tony Roma’s for ribs tonight. If we wanted to join in for $8 apiece, she would purchase the ribs and bring them to the hotel pool tonight. “After all,” she said with a wink, “we wouldn’t want to take the boosters away from their happy hour.”

Spring Training, Day 4: Giants Vs. A’s

This morning after breakfast, we’re going to look for an internet connection. Although the Embassy Suites advertises wireless in every room, their server has been down the entire time we’ve been here. Rick also wants to look for a neutral or Giants sweatshirt; we’re going to a Giants vs. Padres game today, and he thinks wearing an A’s pullover would be a mistake. It’s rather chilly today and threatening rain.

It took us awhile this morning to find the Kinko’s I thought I saw on Thomas Road yesterday. But the Walgreen people helped us out. We both logged onto the internet in Kinko’s – what a neat deal. And they’re open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 20 cents a minute. I’ll have to remember Kinko’s when I’m traveling.

The mapquest directions for Scottsdale Stadium, home of the San Francisco Giants during Spring Training, took us east on McDowell Road, and then north on Scottsdale Road. It was only a few blocks from Scottsdale Rd, and we parked in a makeshift parking lot and walked across the small street to the stadium. In fact, we walked all around the stadium, as it wasn’t quite 11 a.m., too early to go in. Once we were behind the stadium, we climbed the “grassy knoll” and were treated with a view of the entire diamond. That grassy area was completely filled with squatters by game time.

We were seated in Section 121 lower box, which put us just off 3rd base, but only two rows from the smallish fence separating us from the field and the players. The Padres were warming up next to us, and a couple of them came over to the fence, right in front of us, to sign autographs for the small crowd: Klesko and Nady. One pitcher, Otsuka, was very friendly, and stayed until every last person at the fence had his or her autograph. We didn’t get any autographs, but if it had been Giants players, I know I would have stepped up with the unsigned baseball I kept in my bag.

As soon as we sat down in our seats, we recognized a couple of A’s boosters in the row. One gentleman, who was still decked out in his A’s bright green colors, was probably in his 80’s. He took one look at Rick when he said hi to him, and instead of returning the greeting he said, “Are you going to be quiet today?” Rick, somewhat taken aback, answered honestly: “No.”

The weather seemed iffy. In fact, it did drizzle a bit, and we felt a few drops all through the game. It was overcast all day and a bit windy, with the temperature in the low 60’s. But still good baseball weather.

The game itself was entertaining, but we both felt we were too far away from home plate, and the ability to accurately call balls and strikes, to really stay in the game. It was a hitfest. There were over 30 hits in the game, with the Padres winning, 6-4. Starting Giants pitcher Jerome Williams struggled, and was taken out during the 3rd inning after giving up three runs. Almost all of the Giants pitchers met the same fate, with several hits being charged against each of them. David Franklin pitched one-and-a-third inning and gave up 1 hit, the new closer Benitez gave up 1 hit and 2 runs in 1 inning, and Christiansen really got shelled, like Williams, with 4 hits and 2 runs given up in 1 inning. Eyre looked a bit better, but Brower gave up 1 run in 1 inning.

On the offensive side, however, things looked promising. J.T. Snow looked ready for the season with two hits out of three tries, including a double which ricocheted against the center field wall. Moises Alou looked good defensively but whiffed during his two opportunities. Infielders Edgardo Alfonso (1 hit) and Ray Durham (2 hits) looked effective defensively and with a bat. However, the absence of Bonds, who is out for several weeks due to more surgery on his knee, really showed in that there was no one with the big bat to knock runners in and protect Alou.

We kept getting line drives coming to our section from mostly left-handed hitters. In fact, I can easily say that most of the foul balls today landed squarely in our section, on someone or next to someone. The kids, so noisy at the start of the game, scrambled madly for the errant balls, but for the most part could not beat the 40-year-olds trying to recapture their childhood with a dive to the concrete. However, there was one touching moment when a 12-year-old boy, one of the rowdiest of the kids, caught the foul ball right in front of a little old lady. He stood up, turned, and handed it to her, and she hugged him to much applause from onlookers. There was one scary moment, however, when one man three rows above us took a line drive in the chest. The paramedics responded quickly to help him recover his breath, and gave him a cold compress for the bruise that was about to pop up on his chest.

Scottsdale Stadium was built in 1955 for about $72,000. The Giants announced at today’s game that they signed an agreement to spend spring training at Scottsdale Stadium over the next 20 years, through 2025. When I looked out at the field, I could imagine Ted Williams playing there so many years ago. But the stadium holds 10,000 people, 3,000 more than Maryvale, and with its old fixtures it reminds you more of Candlestick than a smallish modern spring training facility. It is definitely not my favorite of the parks we’ve visited.

After the game, we stayed in old Scottsdale and went hunting for a restaurant. We parked and walked over to the Pink Pony – a restaurant where legends Barry Bonds and Ted Williams had both eaten -- but they were booked until 9 pm. So we took a chance and walked across the street to the Italian restaurant called Buca di Beppo. We waited in Buca’s lobby for an hour while they waited for one of the limited numbers of tables that seated two, but finally we got in. The restaurant was quite a sight, with Italian memorabilia and photos pasted all over the walls. You walked through the kitchen to get to the restaurant rooms so that they could show you the specials. The rooms in the back were crammed with family parties, including little kids screaming for attention. The menu was filled with old-fashioned Italian favorites which felt like you needed an Italian interpreter to order. We took the advice of our waiter and split the chicken cacciatore along with the garlic bread. It was the best I’ve ever tasted

Spring Training, Day 5: Zito Dominates

There are probably a dozen small stadiums within minutes of our hotel, a fact I find amazing. The farthest we’ve had to trek so far is about 15 miles, to Maryvale, but you could take surface streets to get there if you wanted to. It helps that Phoenix/Scottsdale seems to be plotted in a grid. But every time we’ve driven to the next stadium, we might see two more on the way. However, as the parking lot attendant told us at Scottsdale, there’s a rule about minor league teams competing with another team within 30 miles. But this rule doesn’t apply to spring training facilities.

We passed Papago Park on our way to Scottsdale Stadium yesterday, and figured out that the Oakland Athletics pitchers who aren’t scheduled to pitch that day probably stay at Papago to do their workouts. That’s why we haven’t seen Barry Zito at any of the games so far. Hopefully he’ll be scheduled to pitch today.

Rick has a new belief, that Barry Bonds will use this “excuse” of having surgery on his knees to bow out of baseball and thus avoid the further controversy of the steroid scandal. However, my argument is that he’ll stay because of the home run record; his deepest desire, besides the World Series ring, is to eclipse Babe Ruth in home runs. Rick and I bet a carvery sandwich at the Club level at SBC Park. If Barry returns by the end of the season, I win.

Our early estimation of our two teams, the Oakland Athletics and the San Francisco Giants, is that the A’s have the pitching, defense and hitting to compete well in their division, whereas the Giants look weak in pitching and in depth. We’ll know more today when the A’s take on the Giants. We thought it might rain, but it’s beginning to look like a beautiful day.

Rick spotted Mike Krukow, the former Giants player and current announcer, as he was parking in the same parking lot. Alongside him walked Duane Kuiper, another former player and current Giants announcer. Both of them are considered excellent announcers alongside Jon Miller, one of the best in the business. I grabbed Mike when he got closer to us, blurting, “Mike, could we get a picture of you and Rick together, with Duane?” Rick took the time to schmooze with his favorite announcers, quickly slipping off the A’s visor before they got to us. As they left, Rick blurted, “I’d listen to you on the radio today, but I forgot my radio this trip.” Kruk said as he walked off, “That’s okay – we’ll talk loud.”

While we waited for the game to begin, we saw Kruk and Kuip in the booth, and Jon Miller as well. In the A’s booth we spotted Ray Fosse and oldtimer Bill King, getting ready for the broadcast. One booster sitting next to us rushed over to see if he could get autographs. Unfortunately he was too late for Foss.

Rick saw that Norma and her husband were sitting in the sun five rows below us, and they weren’t happy. With my agreement, he went down and offered our seats to them in trade, which were in the shade. They happily accepted. As it turned out, we were in the shade by game time.

There was a row of about five women in their 40’s and 50’s right behind us. A couple of them were keeping score, and seemed to really know who the players were and what the plays were. What irked Rick, however, was when they were constantly yelling, “Down in front!” to the people walking in front of us. Since these people were just following the natural aisle, it was silly to assume they could move any faster, or stop walking in front of us. Still, they persisted, as these passers-by were distracting them from the game.

Zito was the crowd favorite today, probably because Byrnes wasn’t playing. He wasn’t even in the dugout, and the rumor is that Eric wasn’t feeling well today.

Zito vs. Schmidt. The actual game wasn’t that close. The A’s scored 17 runs on 17 hits, while the Giants floundered with 3 runs, most scored in the latter innings. Jason Schmidt was removed in the 5th; we feel he’ll recover from this devastating spring outing. Zito, however, used all his pitches and did very well, giving up only 3 hits (including a homerun) in 6 innings.

As you can imagine with 17 runs, the A’s enjoyed their day at Phoenix. Here’s a synopsis of hit totals:
Kotsay – 1 for 3
Kendall – 3 for 3
Suzuki (rookie catcher from Stanford) – 1 for 2
Durazo – 2 for 3
Daric Barton (rookie at 1st base) – 1 for 2
Chavez – 1 for 3 (and made a spectacular stop at 3rd base, throwing the runner out at 1st)
Rouse (rookie at 3rd base) – 1 for 2 with 2 runs
Dan Johnson (rookie at 1st base) – 2 for 5
Quintanilla (RF rookie) – 2 for 2
Swisher – 2 for 3
Bocachica – 1 for 2

The A’s seem solid in all aspects of their game. Swisher seems to be getting his swing, and even the rookies and invitees are showing their stuff. The Giants, however, are another question. There’s a lot of concern with Bonds missing, and the pitching seems suspect. We feel that Schmidt will get his tools working by opening day, but we wonder about the rest of the pitching staff.

A bright spot for the Giants was their new closer, Armando Benitez, who hasn’t given up a run in the last 2 games/5 innings. Another one is Jason Ellison, who appears to have won the backup right field position.

We heard that Ken Macha made the team bus stop at the Dairy Queen Saturday on the way back from the Tucson game. He let the players order anything they wanted, it was on him. The DQ workers weren’t sure if a softball team had wandered into their store, or if this was just a joke.

Spring Training, Day 6: Beer Guys and the Autograph Hunt

Rick told me he got his love of baseball not from his parents but from his grandmother, Marion Cornelius Brunson. She used to keep score for the local semi-pro team in Pooler, Georgia, when she was growing up, and loved going to the minor league games. In later years, she listened to the radio during every Atlanta Braves game, waving her homemade Braves “damn it” doll during an important play. Rick and his siblings treated her on her 89th birthday to her first major league baseball game, a trip to see the Braves in Fulton County Stadium. She was in heaven. She died four short years after that, a Braves fan ‘til the end.

Today the Giants and A’s meet at Scottsdale Stadium. We’re hoping the Giants make a better showing on their own turf.

The vendors are something to watch. Actually, there are very few wandering vendors, unlike at a regular season ballpark, and they only sell beer. At Scottsdale, they stand put, usually in the middle of the aisle as you’re about to walk into the seating area, and yell out the choices – “BudBudLiteCoorsLiteMillerMillerLite – it’s the same terrific beer you drank in high school!” They’re in competition with each other, so whoever yells the loudest or can attract the most attention will sell the most beer, or at least that’s the working theory.

At Phoenix Municipal, the only vendors you see are bucket-toting beer men. Each bucket is filled with ice and bottles of beer. As you can imagine, these guys are heavily muscled. “Mark the Beer Guy” has empty bottles of beer on cords around his neck to display his wares, and he gives out signed baseball cards with an image of himself on it to everyone who buys his beer.

Beer isn’t cheap. A Fat Tire (a dark ale) goes for $6 or $6.50. Beer sold in the stands at Phoenix is $6, while it’s $5.50 at Scottsdale. Some go as high as $7. If anyone came to spring training expecting cheap beer, go elsewhere. And if you try to smuggle in your own, it’ll be confiscated by stadium security (along with the peanut butter sandwich one of our boosters lost at Maryvale the other day).

Spring training is the ultimate immersion in baseball. When you go to breakfast in the morning or happy hour at night, you talk baseball with the people in line, even the service people. All the fans are wearing their “colors,” and, like peacocks, the men have the best outfits. Some even change for each event – breakfast, the game, happy hour, dinner. You go to the game hours before it starts, just to soak up all the baseball culture and to share with complete strangers your feelings on your teams and how they’ll do in another week when the regular season begins. Fans even select their choices for dinner based upon the restaurant’s baseball history. For instance, tonight we’ll be going to Don and Charlie’s on the recommendation from other boosters who say it’s a baseball fan’s dream – players and coaches in attendance, and memorabilia on the walls. It’s a place to see and be seen, all in the spirit of this wonderful cultural event called baseball.

Rick bought green Giants visors with an orange shamrock on the side for each of us when we were last at Scottsdale, a St. Patrick’s Day hat, so I wore that one this morning.

We got to the game two hours early, and stood in line for the security check. The security people at our gate decided to do the check of the bags while we were waiting, and went down the line, looking quickly into each bag. While we were doing that, we talked with the couple behind us. They were Fresno Grizzlies fans who live in central California. They were teachers on spring break, and just decided to get in their car, drive 8 hours, and buy whatever tickets they could for Giants games.

Rick and I found our seats, which were in the grandstand above where we were sitting Saturday. The seats weren’t as close to the field, but they afforded a much better view of home plate and the whole field, and we knew we’d enjoy the game more than our last visit. I went through Rick’s assortment of pens and picked one out that would look good as an autograph on a baseball, a fine-point blue sharpie. I ran down to the fence with my baseball and pen, and waited for the Giants players to finish their workout and come on over. Unfortunately, when they finished, they rushed to the dugout. I came back up to the seats.

But about half an hour later, the A’s began working out. Rick noticed that one of them, Eric Byrnes, had come over to sign autographs. He was the only one, and there were about 10 or so fans huddled around that point of the low fence. I ran down again with my ball and pen in hand, and waited, hoping he would make his way down the line towards home plate. He did exactly that, and, among the now 30 or so fans scrambling for an autograph, he reached for my pen and ball, and signed very neatly in the sweet spot. The woman behind me asked to borrow my pen, and I had to wait another five or so autographs before she got hers so that I could get Rick’s pen back. I ran back up the stairs to show everybody in my row the signed baseball.

Even though I like to collect autographs, I didn’t spend a lot of energy pursuing this hobby during the trip. You have to know the stadium well, I think, and the players’ habits to know where to stand, and you can waste an hour or two if you’re wrong. I found that some of the parks – Maryvale and Scottsdale especially – lent themselves to obtaining autographs during that point in the players’ workouts where they finished stretching and were about to start the game. However, Phoenix Municipal in particular was not autograph-friendly – there was too much foul territory and not enough gaps between the fences and the field that would allow a fan to stand with ball and pen in hand.

I went to look for food at that point, but when I returned, Eric was still signing. He was joined by two other players, but I couldn’t see who they were. I noticed that the three women in the seats next to me had had Eric sign the bills on their caps. Ethel, a Japanese-American woman in her 60’s who was sitting next to me, is a concessions worker at the Coliseum. She told me she’s been following the Oakland team since they were the Oakland Oaks, “a long time ago.”

The game was the exact opposite of the one yesterday. The Giants pitchers performed very well, as did their hitters, while the A’s pitchers and hitters couldn’t find their mark. Kirk Rueter, the number 2 starter for the Giants, pitched a perfect game through four-and-a-half innings, retiring the first 14 hitters, and left after one walk in the 5th. The Giants’ bats were uncontainable today. A’s starter Keiichi Yabu, a new Japanese acquisition, couldn’t find the plate. When the umpire gave him a balk, he seemed to lose his concentration. Righthander Seth Etherton, who appeared to be on track as the 5th A’s starter, allowed 4 runs in 4 innings.

Rick has been rooting for Lance Niekro to make the team. Lance is, we’re guessing, Hall of Famer Phil Niekro’s son.

Here’s a recap of Giants’ hitting:
Vizquel - 3 for 3
Niekro – 1 for 2
Alou – 1 for 4
Michael Tucker – 2 for 3
Feliz – 1 for 2 (with a homerun)
Grissom – 1 for 2
Alfonzo – 1 for 1

The A’s managed to score 4 runs at the end of the game, well after the regulars had departed. Giants won, 9-4.

We ended the day at Don and Charlie’s, a restaurant/bar in Scottsdale recommended to me by several boosters. “It’s where you meet the players,” they said, although I didn’t have a hope that we would, especially since our reservation was on Monday night and very early, 5:45 pm. We got there right after the game, and settled in the bar. But we couldn’t resist walking among the several rooms filled with baseball memorabilia. It was awesome. And everything was signed. The bartender told us that patrons would be about “9 deep” in about an hour, and she was rushing to get ready.

After a couple of drinks our table was ready, so we were shown to a corner table in the large, noisy room. The chatty guy next to us told us, “You’re in the best seat in the house! You can see everyone who walks in.” He was a local from Scottsdale, and normally just walks up for dinner. He explained that Don and Charlie’s is very busy during spring training, but a table can be obtained very easily during the summer. These 6 weeks bring in over $200 million to the Phoenix/Scottsdale communities, which means that his usual restaurants are abnormally busy.

We were eating our dinner when we figured out that someone at the table next to us was a Giants player. The first clue was when one of the owners (Don, I think), whose picture matched many we had seen in the bar, came over to meet him, shake his hand, and wish him and the Giants well for the season. But we didn’t know the player’s face. I heard him talk with his mother on his cell phone: “Mom, don’t you recognize your other son’s voice?” I also heard him tell her that he pitched well that day. (I didn’t mean to listen in, but, hey, when you talk on a cell, your voice gets louder.) WOW! He pitched today! We saw him play! I whispered to Rick, “He’s a pitcher.” “But who is he?” We started playing a guessing game, trying to figure out who this player was with the meager clues presented. Rick asked me, pointedly, “Linda, who is he?” I had no idea, but I had a couple of clues now: he’s a Giant, he pitched today, he’s in his early 30’s. Finally Rick said hi to him from across our small table, and asked him who he played for. “Giants.” What’s your number? “49, but I used to be 47.” Finally he asked him, “Well, what’s your name?” “Scott Eyre,” he said, and I kind of exploded. “Scott Eyre! We’ve seen you pitch for the last couple of seasons! You’re great!”

Scott introduced his brother and his brother’s friends to us, and added he was happy to have a home at this point, and really likes the Giants. In answer to Rick’s question about how the team might do this year, he said – after giving Rick a hard time about his A’s shirt – even without Bonds, they have a great group. “These are great guys. They went out and got guys who are great in the clubhouse, really fun guys who know how to have a good time.” While I had no idea how fun in the clubhouse equates to a good team, I nodded appreciatively.

At that point the waitress brought him a big ‘ol hot fudge sundae, and another for his brother’s friend. Both ate the ice cream like they would never see another. “Hey, I’ll just do another couple of laps tomorrow,” he said, laughing, as we teased him about it.

Rick asked the final question: How do you feel about the Dodgers, which turns out to be his brother’s favorite team. “I hate the Dodgers,” answered Scott. He turned to us and told us that when the Giants were playing the Dodgers in that last series last year, winner take all including the division title, “Some guy threw his inhaler at me. Hit me right in the head.” I explained to Rick that the bullpen at Dodger Stadium is right below several reserve rows. “And then somebody threw a quarter at me the next day. And at the end, when we lost, somebody dumped a cold beer on my head.” He looked disgusted.

He and his family left after Scott put the bill on his credit card, but not before saying hello to an arriving family: “Hey, Coach, looks like you’re following me!” It was Mark Gardner with his wife and two kids, seated a couple of tables down from us.

We wished Scott Eyre well, and I thanked him for allowing fans to talk to him during dinner. He was very gracious about it. And then we wished Mark well in passing. Mark Gardner was a premiere pitcher for the Giants in the ‘90’s, one of my favorites, and is now a coach for the Giants.

We felt like the week had been capped with this meeting of two Giants players. What a terrific end to the spring training experience for us!

Spring Training, Day 7: Surprise

Today is the last day of spring training. It’s hard to believe that the week is over, as the experience has gone by so quickly.

The plan this morning was to join Candi’s group on the bus, and let the driver take us to Surprise, Arizona, for our final game, A’s vs. the Texas Rangers at the Ranger’s spring training home.

We had breakfast with boosters Marge and Arlene this morning as they asked to share our table in the hotel's small patio. They were about to catch a shuttle to the airport. They were two of the women behind us the other day yelling “Down in front!” at Phoenix Municipal, probably in their late 60’s. They told us that they took a shuttle to the Fashion Mall yesterday. The driver of the shuttle they took told them that he picked up Barry Zito the other day. Zito was just sitting on the curb, strumming his guitar and waiting for a ride when the van driver pulled up. They also heard from the driver that Zito had rented a condo in Phoenix with his girlfriend.

Arlene told me that she had a private conversation with A’s manager Ken Macha the other day at a game in Phoenix. She told him that he needs to keep Eric Byrnes as a player because “he’s just so cute out there,” and “he knows how to run, on his tiptoes – Kotsay could learn a thing or two by watching Byrnes run.” Macha looked disgusted and replied, “You think Byrnes is cute?” Apparently he disagreed.

At that point, Marge left hurriedly so that she could get her luggage ready for the shuttle, due in 15 minutes. “She’s a Type A,” said Arlene, as she rolled her eyes and slowly continued to sip her coffee.

It was nice not having to struggle with mapquest directions to find the little town of Surprise since we rode on the fan bus. However, there was a lot of traffic on the little feeder streets to the stadium once we got off the freeway, and the bus sat in traffic at least half an hour before we pulled in.

I’m glad we took this 7th day, an extra one, because Surprise Stadium was the best one yet. It’s home to both the Texas Rangers and Kansas City Royals. The office of the Rangers is off the 1st base line, while the offices of the KC Royals are off 3rd base. It has an antiquated feel about it due to its architecture, although the seats were nice and modern. Almost all the seats were on the field level, but there were two elevated grandstand bleachers, one on each side, right around 1st and 3rd bases, respectively. Lots of interesting food smells greeted us as we wandered around the stadium in search of Section 107. Rick and I had a corn dog, and he helped himself to a fried twinkie later. Section 107 was filled with Oakland A’s boosters, the only part of the stadium, it seemed, that rooted for the A’s. We were so close to the field that I thought I could reach out and touch any of the players. Taking photos was definitely fun.

The game started with the Rangers making mincemeat out of Rich Harden, scoring 5 runs in the bottom of the 1st. However, the A’s hitters came back as Rich settled down and they scored 7 runs (!) in the 3rd inning. After that, the A’s chipped away with their steady replacements, 1 run in the 5th, 2 runs in the 6th, until they won the game handily, 15-8. Justin Duchsherer did very well as a relief pitcher for three innings. The boosters were happy as we slept on the bus on the way home. We stepped off the bus at 5:30 pm, “just in time for happy hour” as one booster said, a smile on his face.

But no happy hour for us. Rick and I climbed in the car and set off for dinner before we went to the airport. We stopped at Bill Johnson’s Big Apple Restaurant, which boasts a steer and a palomino on the roof and sawdust on the floor. The waiters all wore six guns riding low on their hips (with straws stuck in the holsters). We had a nice dinner and went to the airport to drop off the rental car.

Going through security wasn’t as easy as I thought it should be. I dress for security, as I’m sure most travelers do these days. I wear a thin belt and tennis shoes, with no metal in my pockets. The TSA rep advised me to take off my running shoes, or I would face a 10-20 minute delay. “Is taking off my shoes required?” No, he explained again, but it would mean a delay in processing. I decided to call his bluff and kept my tennis shoes on.

It was no bluff. Even though the magnetometer didn’t beep when I walked through, he told me to go over to the side and wait. “What about my money?” I asked as I pointed to my fanny pack on the belt, a good 15 feet from me. “You can watch it from there,” he said. When the female TSA agent came over to process me, she asked the first agent if I was….something. Yes, he said, and I took that to mean that I was a suspicious target. He had answered no to the man in the secondary area before me.

She was very polite and explained every move as she wanded me, told me to unbuckle my belt when she heard the beep, and then patted down my sides. I have no idea why she ran her hands only along my sides, but it was over within about 5 minutes. Rick calls me a troublemaker, a TSA menace. I just like to observe the process, and I trust that American government security personnel are properly trained and will treat me with respect and dignity. I may be wrong one of these days.

As we were standing in line to board the aircraft back home, the passenger in front of us told me that his wife trips the magnetometer every time due to her underwire bra. She finally figured it out after several business trips. “You go through Customs – that’s what I call TSA – and you strip and they search you. We business people know what to expect, but it’s always upsetting when you get some newbie who doesn’t know how to read the x-ray, or insists that everyone is a terrorist.” Rick cut him off by saying, “I know Customs, and TSA, sir, is no Customs.”

But nothing could upset my good mood. I just did 7 spring training games in 7 days, journeyed to four charming ballparks, talked with players and fans alike in an almost total immersion environment, drinking in the experience as one magnum glass of champagne. I felt like I had just hit a homerun in the World Series, and now I was going to Disneyland.

COMPRESSING BREASTS, NOT FILES

I remember walking into a German deli once, right off the Autobahn, and being so completely disoriented that I had no idea where to even start. I did not know that I had to (1) pay first at the cash register and then (2) order what I wanted from the short order cook. Who knew it was in reverse order from how we do things in the U.S.? It wasn't that the menu was completely different -- I can adjust to that. I certainly know what food looks like, regardless of what words bring about an "egg" in another country. It's the fact that the rules of engagement aren't the same, and I'm totally lost.

Just like that scenario, I tend not to hear things when they're not the way I expect them to be. It's not selective listening. It's more like you-can-shout-all-you-want, I-will-never-hear-you.

And so it was when I walked into the hospital x-ray wing yesterday. I was to receive a mammogram, my first in over a decade. I have a clever doctor, and I suspect the last several meetings -- including two colonoscopies and one colonectomy -- were part of the massive build-up in preparation, just a sly way to get me to agree to this latest procedure. Since she'd done so much for me in the last two years, I felt I owed her this one.

I have been to this same building before. I've gone into the same waiting room, only this time it was 7:45 in the morning, and instead of being stuffed to the rafters with patients, I was almost alone. I went to the wrong window, the one on the left. "No, you go over there," she said, pointing to the one on my right three windows over. While it had #1 written on it, it was completely over to the right. Like reading Japanese.

The woman who greeted me there was very nice as well, despite the early hour and their obvious need to get ready for the day. She asked me to look over the paperwork. I said, "Well, my next of kin is wrong, my phone numbers are wrong....most of this is wrong." She went back to typing in her computer. After a few minutes, she asked me, "Are you finished reading it?" I said yes. She took it and then told me to have a seat and wait for the technician. There was no attempt to correct the wrong things. I think she said something in there, but I didn't hear her. I know I didn't fix anything, and she didn't either. I was still thinking about this, obviously without having done anything to correct it or even ask her why we hadn't, when the female tech called my name, sort of. "Mrs. So-and-So?" I bristled at the "Missus." There was only one other woman in the waiting room, and I doubt her last name was the same as mine. So I guess that antiquated assumption was for me.

She was nice otherwise, though. She told me to take off my shirt and get into that ubiquitous hospital gown. That was just for show, for when she came back in she told me to take it off. I said the equipment was quite different at the last place I had had this procedure. "Metal and cold," I said. She said with a small laugh that it might not be metal, "but it's still cold."

As she positioned me and took four x-rays, i still screwed up her directions. "Look up," she would say and I would look down. She would put my breast on the plate and I'd try to put my arm around the plate, which must've been wrong as she moved it right away. The instructions had read that compressed breasts might hurt for a couple of days and be bruised. I was thinking of that as I disobeyed her orders, well, not willingly, flailing away as I contorted myself for the x-ray monster. I was back on the autobahn, trying to find that egg sandwich in the deli.

At the end, I had to admit it wasn't very difficult. Things have improved in ten years. I still suspect they'll call me back two more times due to false readings, but I won't know that for another week. However, the disorientation in all things medical continues. I think it's probably due to a natural nervousness, trying to interpret every small thing so you can either control your environment or at least figure out if the person in front of you knows something you don't. They do. They know how to get around. They know that you have to pay for the egg sandwich before you get it.

A's FANFEST REPORT, February 2005

Rick and I agreed to meet at the A’s Fanfest this Saturday, Feb. 12th, rather early so that we could figure out what tickets came with our partial season ticket, and then which tickets to buy. Like last year, we wanted to make sure we got tickets for the Yankees, Red Sox and Giants, as those were the hot games.

However, Rick called me as I was parking in the A’s parking lot. He was stuck behind a stalled BART train, and would be late. So I went ahead into the season ticket office, which had only a few people ahead of me. I got a copy of our plan, and then figured out which tickets to buy. After figuring out that Rick would still be delayed, I went in and purchased tickets only for the Boston games, now that I knew that we already had tickets for all the Yankees and Giants games. As always, Rick had told me that he would buy into anything I decided. We always agree on baseball priorities.

So I got in line to wait for entrance to FanFest. I took a look at the autograph lines, but it was obvious that even though I got to the park an hour early, those people were lining up ‘way before that. So, like last year, I skipped those long lines. We both regretted that decision when we discovered that both Dave Stewart and Rickey Henderson were signing together.

Rick found me in line to get in. I asked him if he was going to be this late for Spring Training, too. We are both going to Spring Training in Phoenix for the first time ever, and it was just a month away. While waiting, we decided that I would pick him up that morning for our trip to Oakland Airport. Since we were leaving on a jet plane at 6 am, there would be little traffic.

As we were walking into the A’s stadium through Gate “C”, Rick said to the security guy, “Go ahead and search me!” and spread his arms out wide. Much to his surprise, and laughter, the guy actually patted him down! He obviously doesn’t get much of a chance to use his training, but Rick never expected he’d take him up on his offer! I guess he didn’t find anything on Rick’s person, because he let us go, laughing continuously (and probably for the rest of the morning, I’ll bet, about “that fool who dared me to pat him down!”).

As soon as we got in, we couldn’t get in. “What is holding us up?” Rick said rather loudly. It wasn’t all the women volunteers giving out freebie bags. We finally saw them – players! Standing right behind the turnstiles, saying hello to the fans, having pictures taken with them. I saw Scott Hatteberg and took some photos of him. Rick saw Adam Melhuse. We decided, though, to get out of the melee’ and walk around them.

Where to? I told him I wanted to sign up for photos with the players, so we did that. We found the booth up on the second level. Since there were very few people in the stadium at that point, it was a pleasant walk. Half an hour later, it would not be so. We bought photo tickets with Eric Byrnes, just signed to a new contract, and Bobby Crosby, whose rookie year last year was recognized by the league. Wandering around after that, we bid on a couple of silent auction items (but didn’t win), gave some money to the Leukemia Society, got a bunch of freebies from Comcast and other sponsors, listened a little bit to some of the speakers like Keiichi Yabu say he would pitch inside, and ended up buying pulled pork sandwiches and sitting in Our Seats, right in Section 115, Row 28. What a beautiful day.

When Rick put on his purple wrist band, a gift from the Leukemia Society, I told him that the yellow one is the Armstrong band, but the purple one means you’re gay. He didn’t bat an eye, and said, “Well, whatever.” But then he said, “But I think you’re stereotyping your colors.”

I read in the brochure for Fanfest that women were invited to join an all-woman baseball clinic. Rick urged me on. “What?” I said, “I’m over 50 years old. Those women would probably be in their 20’s!” He suggested that that very fact may be the reason I’d want to go. I was laughing so hard, I almost fell out of one of several lines we were in that day. Rick always makes me laugh. I don’t know what I’m going to do when he retires and moves to… Braves land. National League city. King Knockahoma. That very thought made me wince, and makes me sad.

The highlight of the day for me was the photo with the players. Eric Byrnes, tall with a blonde, ungangly haircut, looked like he had just awakened from a day-long nap. He didn’t reply when I wished him a good season. Bobby Crosby, however, was quite talkative even though I must’ve been 50th in line. He asked me if I was having a good time. I ended up telling him how bad the Giants’ FanFest was. “What, were you having a conversation with the star?” Rick said to me afterwards. “Do you even know what position he plays?” He was testing me. Shortstop. Of course.

When we got home I found out that Shawn had taken Buddy and Chewy to the vet for their latest round of shots. As I was putting puppy Buddy’s rabies tag on his collar, I noticed its color. I told him, “Purple. Did you know that means you’re gay?”

THE INTERVIEW FROM HELL

A young friend of mine is having job woes. His company went bust this week, which means that he is newly unemployed. He’s faced with pounding the street again, looking for elusive employment.

I feel for him. It’s tough out there. Why does he think I was in government for over 30 years, accepting lower wages (or at least the argument has always gone)?

His trials have made me think again about my first forays into the business world. Well, not INTO the business world. I stuck a toe in, and found it icy cold.

A few short months shy of graduation from San Diego State College in 1970, I went on a few interviews. One was with the U.S. Navy, as I had applied for officer candidate school. The woman I met with initially told me what they were looking for: “A woman of the times, someone who wouldn’t fall apart at meeting a Robert Redford-type!” She then told her horror story of watching three young women applicants lose their “cool” when they encountered a young blonde officer. Well, I knew that wouldn’t be my problem. I assured her that if that were the test, I’d pass.

However, I wasn’t the one for them. They were looking for a certain type, and I didn’t match that description. I later entered the service (enlisted rather than officer), four years later, but only after I tried a few other avenues.

I went to a personnel agency, and they seemed convinced that they could hook me up with a well-paying job. “What kind of job are you looking for?” I wasn’t sure. Maybe a bank position, like a loan officer. A personnel job. Anything that pointed towards a career, a profession. Any job where the training could be on the job.

My first interview for the agency was for a bank, for the position of a loan officer. I still remember the fact that the man never asked me any questions, never looked over my resume. He didn’t even talk about the job. He just talked about daily affairs, and then, as a punctuation at the end of his talk, he told me I should go home, get married and have kids. He then ushered me out the door. I thought to myself, “I can’t believe this! It’s 1970, not 1940!” I remember thinking that I was amazed that I was coming up against the same barriers that stumped my mother so many years ago when she, as a divorcee, tried to make a living to support her and her young son. Some things hadn’t changed terribly much after all.

The next interview was for a clerical job on the Navy base, a government job. Same kind of drill, not much difference. At the end of this interview, in which I was not asked a single question about my qualifications, he told me he had already hired someone for the job. That was an illegal practice under the circumstances, but I didn’t raise a fuss, knowing I still needed to work within this system.

I was finally hired from a clerical and typing test I had taken the year before. I entered my first real job, totally overqualified, in November 1970, as a GS-3 Clerk Typist. I believe I was paid about $6,000 a year. I was a great clerk-typist, and ended up meeting some great people who taught me a lot. I also met a lot of chauvinists who tried to hold me and so many others back. My fellow students from SDSC, at least the male ones, were getting at least double that in salary, in a real profession. It took awhile to get going, to discover what I really wanted to do and how to go about it. Probably 10 years.

So, my friend, I’m not by any means suggesting you wait 10 years. I’m just saying that there will be obstacles. There will be stupid bosses, stupid people who interview you. There will be times when may want to go to work for McDonald’s, just to avoid another interview. My message to you: Go for what you want, and don’t let anybody hold you back. And if, at the end of a long day, you don’t get the job, give me a call. We’ll do lunch. I'll buy.

Baseball’s been very, very good to me.

My love affair with the sport began in the late 1970’s, when I left the Navy and relocated with my girlfriend to Los Angeles.

Relocation was very difficult, physically and emotionally. We left all our friends, who were steadily leaving the service anyway, and we left our home in Nevada, where a two-bedroom trailer cost $90/month. House-hunting in L.A. after my first day of work was terrifying, as the horrible reality finally came through to us: we could not afford to live anywhere near my job, near anywhere that was nice. We finally found a one-bedroom apartment in Wilmington, in the midst of some of the worst squalor and crime in Los Angeles. On top of that, it took about 45 minutes to drive to work. In our small town in Nevada, it had taken five minutes to get to work, leaving you time to get a cup of coffee.

Our next-door neighbor was a biker, a real leather man who had the hots for my girlfriend. Not surprisingly, I didn’t trust him at all. He was living off disability from the Teamster’s. Since neither he nor Debbie were working, they spent a lot of time together.

He invited us to a baseball game. Only $8, he said, a promotion at Elysian Fields. The Dodgers. He drove us there in his station wagon through a maze of four freeways and bumper-to-bumper traffic. I was totally amazed as I walked into this blue cathedral of baseball. I had never realized that you could actually *go to these games.

Within a few months, I got promoted and attended training in Georgia. I got the “Dear Jane” call at the barracks-like housing they gave us for training two weeks before my return.

Still, I had baseball. I went by myself to Dodger Stadium, and it became a real luxury item. I found that I could buy agency "scalped" tickets, sold back to the broker by season ticket holders, and could sit in the reserve level, one level above field, and watch Steve Garvey, Mike Scioscia, Don Sutton, Ron Cey, and, yes, Dusty Baker play their hearts out. I remember many nights just falling asleep against the concrete pillar in that section, tired from all the overtime my promotion had given me. But I was happy to be in blue and have a home to go to.

But then I transferred to the San Francisco Bay Area. I lived in Oakland but I naturally loved national league teams and style of play. I went to Candlestick Park whenever I could. I found that tickets to the ‘Stick were comparatively easy to come upon. You didn’t need to buy scalped tickets, but could buy them on your own ahead of time. No matter what bothered you, you could always hang out at the park, sometimes hours ahead of time. Watch some BP. Look at the brilliant play of future hall of famers, like a young Barry Bonds. I couldn’t wear blue any more, but I felt I looked better in black anyway.

I attended a few American League games as well. As long as I had lived in Los Angeles (11 years), I never once attended an Angels game. It was well known that the Angels weren’t a good team. Just ask founder Gene Autry, who died without seeing his team advance to the playoffs. So, I started going to Oakland A’s games with my new family, which was beginning to appreciate the sport. We had watched the A’s fight the Giants during the great earthquake games of 1989, when I transferred to the Bay Area. My partner had just gone through a wrenching foot surgery, her third. In the fog of the powerful pain medication, she would cheer home the A’s. Her two sons and I sat at the foot of her bed and cheered her on as well as our team. Her boys learned the Star Spangled Banner in the car on our way to a home game the next year, hoping to convince their Mom to buy them a treat at the game.

I developed a new respect for the American League, and specifically for the hardy players of the Athletics, players who helped the A’s win four World Series’ rings. Players like Dave Stewart, Reggie Jackson, Dave Henderson, Bob Welch (a Dodger transplant), Mike Gallego, Walt Weiss, Carney Lansford, and, yes, Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire. How exciting those years were! The only thing I didn’t like about American League baseball was -- okay, the designated hitter rule. Isn’t that cheating? Doesn’t that lessen the number of strategies left to employ? And I hated the Oakland colors. Garish yellow and bright green were indicative of Billy Martin days, but not the LaRussa decade. The A's slowly changed their colors to a darker, richer combination.

The Coliseum was much like Candlestick Park, made from that old mold of separating the fans from the players. There was enough foul territory at the Coliseum to stage a Broadway musical with all the costume changes. The stadium is basically the same. Only the name has changed. That and the food, which has gotten considerably better in Oakland. Oh, and add in the Davis Wall, a blindingly steep facade of green built for thousands more football fannies. With the advent of The Wall, the sight of the Oakland hillside was blocked from our view.

I broke up with my partner in 1991, and started a new life on my own. In an effort to fill in the holes of this life, I started a new baseball partnership. Rick, a coworker, had the same passion as I had. Our buddy George did, too, but due to family obligations, never felt free enough to go to more than one game a year. Rick, however, had a very understanding family. In fact, his family is so understanding that (1) he attends games on anniversaries, birthdays, and national holidays if he has a ticket; (2) they give him baseball gifts for every occasion, knowing how much he loves the sport; and not at all least, (3) his girlfriend (now wife) always found the money in their tight budget to advance him so that he could buy partial season tickets with me. It may sound that I’m envious. I’m not. As a single, spoiled woman, I bought all the tickets I wanted as well. We're a perfectly matched couple of baseball friends.

For the past 13 years or so, Rick and I have shared tickets to the A’s and Giants. During each season, we suffer the slings of outrageous fortune as our team does or dies, usually the latter. Over the past several years we weren’t working next to each other any more, so we’d take the time to catch up on what his kids are doing, how my surrogate kids are faring. We would punctuate this conversation by standing up and yelling at an umpire, or cheering on a magnificent double play on the field. And then argue about how we would have done things as pseudo-managers.

Two years ago, almost to the day, I received a phone call from my doctor. He started out slowly yet quickly, all of a sudden saying to me, “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have cancer.” He said something else about hating to spoil my weekend, but all the words trailed off in my memory. Within two weeks I underwent surgery to remove part of my diseased colon. I had no fear when I walked in, and none when I awoke in the intensive care unit. It’s only when I saw two friends’ faces, a day apart, that I realized, slowly, what risk there was. And now, now that I have time to think it all over, I know what risk there remains. I’m a survivor. For now.

The baseball season that year was a spectacular one, for both the Athletics and the Giants. But I was pulled in so many directions that year that I don’t really remember living it. I had very little leave, and thus went back to work a little too soon, two weeks after my operation and one week after I returned home. The stress at work was mounting as the demands increased, but at least I didn’t have the constant before-surgery stomach pain to deal with.

That entire ordeal made it so easy to make the decision to retire at the end of 2003. I knew I would be healthier if I retired. My job as supervisor had changed so much within the last few years as government agencies merged. My skill levels were not increasing fast enough to keep up with the changes. And, somehow, priorities in my life had shifted abruptly.

And so, in 2004, baseball came around again, sprouting up through the cold, solid ground like a new crop. The A’s dropped most of their money players and even their winning manager. We were able to keep Chavez, signing him to a new contract, but he’s still young, and Jermaine Dye has been injured for two years now. But new players like Kotsay and some promising young pitchers were going to make it exciting. The Giants still had Bonds, better than ever, recovering from the death of his father, his mentor. We lost Jeff Kent and an ailing Robb Nen, but picked up such veteran players as Grissom and Tucker. Baseball has changed. Our teams have changed. But they’re still as exciting as ever.

When I attended the ballgames this year, it was a different experience. I wouldn’t eat three of the drumsticks (my favorite) in one ballgame, constantly on the "vendor watch." I will usually opt for the Chinese chicken salad. And take an hour lap around the parking lot before walking in through the tightened security. I have time to listen to the commentators, edge in some music as well, chill out and watch the whole game rather than dash off in the 7th with all the unfinished business I usually had. I’ve changed.

Baseball and I continue to change. We’re both still here, surviving.

Captain Marbles Meets Las Vegas, Volume Two


It was a nice invitation from my brother, Captain Marbles: Meet me in Las Vegas in September. I’ll stay at the Westward Ho, he said, and you can stay for 2 nights for free at the Stardust. Unless you’d rather stay at the ‘Ho? No thanks. While I had never stayed at the Stardust before, it had to be better than the ‘50’s motel decor the Westward Ho served up to its loyal customers.

Even though I had met Marvin and his wife before at the casino, he still took me on the tour. This is where he had won a tournament. This is where he had won a huge jackpot. He showed me all his favorite machines. But in deference to my tastes, he showed me all the nickel slots in the small casino. I remembered them, and saw, with some dismay, that some had been displaced by other, newer ones. Still, there seemed to be enough fun ones to enjoy.
So, on that first day, I won some, I lost some, mostly keeping even while I played Monopoly, I Dream of Jeannie, even Reel ‘Em In, my favorite. I discovered new ones at which I did very well, like Alien and Rich Uncle.

I went to bed, exhausted after the first night, at about 11 pm. Marvin kept gambling. When I saw his wife Hide that next morning, she said that he had won big after she and I had left for sleep. Sure enough, I saw him in the early afternoon, talking to various staff members in the Westward Ho, telling them about his big score.

An incident that happened to Hide last visit came to light: a maid apparently took her blouse, as she couldn't find it when they were leaving. They complained to Westward Ho management when they got home, and the customer service rep told them to see him when they came next. When Marvin asked me if I wanted to go shopping, I thought it was for souvenirs. Little did I realize I was going with Hide to find a replacement blouse.

We met Jim the Customer Service Rep at the progressive dollar slots. Jim showed Hide and me to his personal Mercedes, and drove us the 5 minutes it took to get to the mall. He told me he thought it was a nicer response if he would take her shopping than just mail her a check for the blouse’s replacement, and he was certainly right. He asked her if she wanted Nordstrom’s when we got to the mall....no, she said....Macy’s? Yes! she said. Macy’s was her favorite. This was definitely an upscale Macy’s, with personal shoppers galore. Jim, who was dressed nattily in a suit and matching silk tie, chatted with me as we waited for Hide to make her choice of blouses. Jim, whom I recognized immediately as a brother, served many purposes at the Westward Ho and beyond. He worked on the slot tournaments and promotions as well as customer service at the casino. He was promoting the new Westward Ho which was being built, ready to open in about a month. “The old Westward Ho appeals to clientele who go to bed at about 10 pm,” he said, referring naturally to the Westward Ho’s aging clientele. “This one will bring in those who stay up a little later.” As we walked around Macy’s, he was looking at outfits that had size 0 written on them, trying to figure out what would work for his models on a photo shoot he was going to do in two days. Jim also has his hand in other endeavors, as he pointed out two shows on the Strip which he had choreographed. "I was a dancer for the first 10 years I was in Las Vegas," he said rather wistfully. "I have since grown in other regions," pointing to his waistline. "And these 19-year-old dancers look at me and say, 'God, you're old!'"

When Hide found a blouse -- a $90 one to replace her $12 blouse -- Jim paid for it with his Visa card, and we were on our way back to the casino.

Marvin was feeling good, having won the previous night and was winning so far that afternoon with two $400 jackpots, and so he said he was taking Hide and me to a nice steak dinner at the Riviera. We crossed the street to the Riviera at about 6 pm, but couldn’t get out of the entrance. As soon as you go in, they rope you in for a spin at their wheel. Now, Hide and Marvin know the spin very well, but they love freebies, so all of us stayed in the line a good 20 minutes to win a mug or a deck of cards. Marvin had ANYBAR-ANYBAR-ANYBAR, though, at the big slot machine, so he won some sort of lottery ticket. That meant we all had to go to the player’s club to see if he had won. He did not, but he got another freebie: a 2nd troll doll, surely the ugliest prize in the place.

We made it to the steak house, which is called Kristoffer’s. It was nearly deserted at that early hour, easy to get a table without a reservation. As we walked in, Marvin threw over his shoulder at me, “Do you want white wine or red?” Oh, wow, this is going to be a great dinner! I replied, eagerly, “White!” After he asked the hostess to re-seat us to another table away from the walk-by traffic, he said, “Do you want French wine?” He must’ve hit it big! I said, “No, no -- I prefer wine from California.”

The waiter handed him the wine list. We argued about which white wine. I wanted a nice Chardonnay, while he argued for Blue Nun. “Blue Nun?” I said, haughtily. “Blue Nun is so 30 years ago.” I picked out a Chardonnay, and we asked for two glasses. Marvin took one sip, and reacted. “This is too vinegary. I can’t drink this.” He then asked for a bottle of Blue Nun, as they didn’t serve it by the glass. The waiter, Bobby, seemed determined to get his tip; he said, “Blue Nun is very...consistent.” And that’s what the Captain wanted.

After I drank the two glasses of Chardonnay, I hazarded a glass of the Blue Nun. It’s easier to describe what it isn’t. Not crisp. Not oakey. Very sweet. I found that it helped having the other two glasses first.

The steak was absolutely delicious. I will remember that steak house.

Afterwards, we went to the Nickel Slots adjoining the Riviera. Marvin, probably to keep me company, played Monopoly nickel slots alongside me, but was frustrated because he couldn’t get the bonus round. I kept getting to the bonus rounds, however, on my machines, and was having a good time racking up the points. But after awhile, the 3 glasses of wine and all the food had a definite effect on me: I was falling asleep. So I went back to the Stardust, alone.

I knew I was checking out the next day, so I thought I should play there a little bit, maybe get a comp offer later for my play. I played Monopoly, and quickly won over 1,000 coins (nickles) on two machines. As I waited for the slot people to come over and pay me off, I played a machine I had never heard of before: Quackers. The point of Quackers was to get as many of the same pictures in a row, of course. The bonus round consisted of trying to hit ducks with a plunger, a real crazy, whacky kind of game. I liked it because it was a penny machine, and although I could’ve changed the denomination, I didn’t bother, figuring I could figure out what 1000 pennies are. Better yet, Quackers paid off in a ticket so you didn’t have to wait for manual payoff.

It was late on a Wednesday night, and still no slot people to pay me off for the Monopoly machines. So I kept playing Quackers. Finally they came and I could stop playing and go to bed. So I bet as much as I could at Quackers to play my money down. All of a sudden, I hit a bonus round that had huge numbers to it: 30,000 here, 20,000 there. And then there was another bonus round right after that. When I finally looked up, I was 110,000 points on the board. I thought, “Oh, a hundred dollars.” Then I stared at it again. Nope. Over $1,000. On a penny machine.

This trip must be about three that I’ve actually returned with casino money. Combine that with a shopping trip with a show choreographer and a fight over Blue Nun, and, well, you have a winning trip.

RICKY AND I WENT TO COMIC-CON, AND WE ONLY SAW 3 THINGS

Comic-Con is the big event for collectors and film lovers. Oh, yes, they have comic books, too, but the big draw is the fact that the studios choose July every year in San Diego to promote their blockbusters.

This is the first one I’ve attended in the last 3 years. I’ve discovered that Comic Con tells me how old I am, and it’s not a welcome message. I’m 15 years old, or at least that myth lives inside my head. Sitting on the floor or standing in one spot for 5 hours for a chance at the first three rows in Hall “H” stubbornly explains to me just how old my body is. It’s a disturbing message.

The big annual Star Wars presentation with Steve Sansweet, Carrie Fisher, and young Anakin-turned Darth Hayden Christiansen is what Ricky looks forward to, and for that reason we’re in line for “H” as soon as the doors open. However, they’ve moved us outside in the sun so that the line can grow. We find out quickly that those who went above two levels and down, the first to enter, are ahead of us and in air-conditioning, as they came down to line the walls of “H.” We’re learning the system as we go so we can be quicker next time. As long as it’s fair, we comply with whatever rules there are.

We also saw screenings of “Alien vs. Predator” (surprisingly promising), Keanu Reeve’s new movie “Constantine” (surprisingly violent), Buffy star Sarah Michelle Gellar representing “The Grudge” (horribly violent), “Sky Captain & the World of Tomorrow” (with guests Jude Law and Bai Ling), a surrealistic and unbelievably visual presentation by director Robert Rodriguez and Frank Miller of Miller’s “Sin City,” young hip actors John Cho and Kal Penn introducing their new movie about the power of fast food and cameo appearances by buddy actors (“Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle”), and a spectacular presentation by New Line regarding the new “Return of the King” extended DVD (with witty remarks by prince David Wenham and hobbit Billy Boyd). There were many more, and we were in the front row. However, we missed everything else because we had to hold down our spot in line for 3-5 hours each day so that we could see the presenters.

I believe that the surprising attendance numbers for 2004’s Comic Con tells good things about the economy. Even on a Thursday, it was almost impossible to walk the middle aisle in the dealer’s room without bumping into somebody with a light saber. There seem to be more Hobbits this year than ever before, a testament to the popularity of Lord of the Rings. I’m beginning to feel resentful that the Hobbitses didn’t stay in the Shire this year. Where’s Gollum when you need him?

We won’t be returning to Comic Con in 2005, simply because it conflicts with Disneyland’s 50th anniversary celebration. Seven dwarfs instead of four Hobbits. What a trade-off.

MOVIE REVIEW: THE STEPFORD WIVES (2004)

I have a few friends who grew up in Stepford. Completely dominated in early life by the idea of the women they should be, an idea that was fostered both by the larger-than-life men in their lives as well as key women, it took determination, a lot of therapy and colossal courage to become the independent women they are today.

Knowing this, I think that Stepford is not a pretty place, contrary to both the 1975 and 2004 movies built upon the Ira Levin novel. It is also not a funny place.

The earlier film had the right tone. We followed the discoveries right along with Katharine Ross in this mystery. We were frightened, and we watched in horror when good friends like Paula Prentiss (you remember her in several beach blanket movies) fall under the Stepford curse.

This new film, however, is determined not to keep anything from us. Director Frank Oz acts as if we know all along what Stepford is, so there’s no use keeping it a secret. So, if we know what’s supposed to be happening, and the horror is telegraphed, the movie should have a lighter tone. It doesn’t.

And, in deference perhaps to the 30-year difference, Oz adds some modern touches to this latest treatment. We see a Jewish couple and, yes, even a gay couple fall into the trap. The gay angle, you would think, would elicit more laughs, as most of the stereotypes are played out. One of the funniest and most ironic moments of the play should have been when Roger, our co-conspirator, is “made” into a Republican conservative, his hair is changed, and his manner of flamboyant dress is ripped from him. However, that change, which happens in a matter of seconds, doesn’t have the impact of irony it should, and it certainly isn’t funny.

There are some wonderful performances here. Glenn Close is as close to a Stepford wife as possible. She just glows in these “smaller” roles as she ages. Christopher Walken is primarily used as a parody of himself. But since he’s already a parody of a parody, it’s hard not to laugh as soon as he comes onscreen. Matthew Broderick is developing into a fine comedian; his face tells you exactly what’s going on.

Nicole Kidman is fine, but she doesn’t take command of the movie, referring, instead, to veterans like Close and Walken. Kidman is much better in the beginning of the film when she’s the hyper T.V. executive – very believable as the wonderfully anal CEO right out of “Network.”

The real problem is that The Stepford Wives in 2004 is a comedy. At least I think it was supposed to be. There were a few moments when I laughed, mostly at Bette Midler’s clever deliverance of a line or two. (And, I’m sorry, but Bette as a blonde doesn’t seem “perfect” to me.) But the movie is too serious to be funny. The real truth, at least in my mind, is that the reality of Stepford is a tragedy. The town of Stepford still exists in America. Men still think if they could change their wives, they’d had perfect lives, and the women in their lives pass that message onto their daughters. But trying to squeeze laughs out of this “perfect” scene was a real mistake.

WHO DOESN’T WANT TO BE A MILLIONAIRE?

“When you answer, answer s-l-o-w-l-y,” Ricky said to both of us. “If you’re going to give the right answer, make sure you answer after everybody else has. That’s how you don’t get picked for The Big Chair.”

Rick was giving Brandon, his teenage nephew, and me, his aunt, our last instructions on how not to compete in Disney World’s MGM Studios event, “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.”

They tagged us as soon as we walked into the park. Ricky obviously didn’t want to play this game, as he edged towards the Indiana Jones Stunt Show while the Disney cast member spoke to us about the game, but it was clear both Brandon and I wanted to go inside the studio. We wanted to compete. So, Ricky gave in and followed us into the air-conditioned lobby.

I looked at Brandon and rolled my eyes at hearing Rick’s words of wisdom. Obviously, neither Brandon and I were going to follow this scheme. We wanted to win, kick butt with our knowledge of the American culture!

The studio wasn’t full, but as the time closed in on the 10 a.m. start time, more people kept coming in, no doubt funneled by the Disney reps. We were in “special” seats, the seats rimming the stage itself. I found out quickly that these seats gave us no advantage at all. The object was to hit the button A, B, C or D upon hearing the choices. Fast responses meant a chance to compete for prizes in front of the studio audience.

A kid was picked to be in The Big Chair from the first question. He was given very easy questions, but left very quickly when he had to answer a question about Bill Cosby’s T.V. family. They then picked the next person for the Chair, the person who got the most correct answers when the kid was up, the person who answered the questions the fastest, and that person in the audience happened to be…. Ricky.

Brandon and I were dumbfounded. W-h-a-a-a-t??? How could that have happened? We were instantly really excited! A family member made it to the Big Chair!

The very smooth Millionaire host asked Ricky what he did in San Diego. “Very little,” said Ricky. “He’s not kidding!” yelled out Brandon. The host did a little comedy routine around Rick’s answers, and then went to the game.

Ricky did very well, better than the kid, and we noticed that he was given tougher questions. He got to $16,000, but didn’t know which architect created Fallingwater.

As one of his lifeline choices, he opted to ask someone on the street. “On the street” in Disney World meant somebody right outside the studio. The Disney cast member handed her cell phone to the next person walking down the street, a mother and her two small children. Mom’s guess was incorrect, and Ricky was booted from The Big Chair. Architect Frank Lloyd Wright had created the Fallingwater structure.

At the end, they gave him his gifts and escorted him out. We had to wait until we were all the way out before we could finally ask him: What happened? What happened to don’t-answer-any-question-quickly-or-correctly, the strategy Rick was pushing at us?

He looked sheepish when he answered: “I lost my head.”

We never made it back to the Millionaire game, even though Brandon and I really wanted to, having had an appetizer of limited fame. Ricky couldn’t go back even if he had wanted to. (He didn’t.) He’s banned from playing the game for 30 days.

Should be enough time to get out of town.

"Hellboy" Movie Review

I've read a lot of comic books, and I've seen a lot of movies based on comic books. The former are usually art forms wonderfully created, at least in my memory, and the latter are normally badly done. Yes, you can cite the recent Spider-Man, but how many Hulks are out there? For that matter, have you seen the earlier incarnations of Spider-Man, including that live-action T.V. show? Horrible.

Hellboy gets it right. A deft screenplay by Guillermo del Toro that takes the time to set up his birth (a bit of a slow period in the film), shows you his temperament and the way The Big Red One uses humor, and slows down the action to show you his humanity as he reaches out to touch a kitten.

I've been a fan of Ron Perlman since The Beauty and the Beast, maybe even since that caveman epic he was in with no dialogue. Ron can act through a mask, and has often been required to do so. That's why they keep going to the same well. This one is deep.

Ron gets a lot of help from the sci-fi veteran John Hurt (The Elephant Man, Alien), and several others, including a naive FBI agent through whose eyes we get to meet this gentle giant.

I just wish every comic book adaptation didn't feel it had to build to an explosion between Good vs. Evil. Every time. God, that gets tiring. But even with that, Hellboy makes it entertaining for us and shows us his good side as he's whomping the monster's head against the rocks.

This is a definite must-see for any sci fi fan or anyone who wants to see clever people make good movies.