The Home Run Shmerby

During last week's Home Run Derby, I happened to be on iChat with Shmuz Weekly sports analyst Dr. Chim Richilds, also known as Maurice Schwartz. The following are some excerpts from our conversation as we followed the action.

(Play-by-play in bold, my reflections in italics.)

To kick off, we have St. Louis Cardinals slugger Albert Pujols trying to hit a home run that will win some guy "from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania(!)" a new pickup truck:

Thomas: Of course a goofy fat guy represents Philly on national tv.
Marc: hes prolly from like lancaster and they are jus saying philly

This, of course, is probably true. People such as myself and Marc know well the concept of generalizing the suburbs to mean from Philly. I'm not going to tell someone at college that I'm from Narberth. I'm a Narb to death, of course, but I have to be practical about that pride. Saying I'm from "Philadelphia" will give someone the gist, but for all they know "Narberth" could be Amish country. When I was at orientation for the University of Iowa, I was awarded a free sweatshirt for living so far away from the school. They announced my home town as "Nazareth, PA." Free gear and feeling closer to Jesus? Hell of a 1-2 combo.

Albert lays off a bunch of pitches. He's taking this at bat seriously. This is his stage, and he wants to give his best performance for this guy, who we'll call Jerry from the Northeast. Finally, he makes contact, and falls way short of a home run, short of winning Jerry that dream car.

Marc: this must jus have albert out of his hr derby mindset. that jus sucks for him. he jus let this dude down.

Another astute point. Have you ever seen one of these contests place all of the pressure on a star athlete? It's usually the contestant who has to win himself the prize by doing things like kicking the field goal or making the half court shot. Perhaps baseball just can't have those kinds of contests. What are they gonna do, have a race around the bases? Jerry can't hit one out of the park, so they bring in Albert, a guaranteed hall of famer and a hero in St. Louis. No one expects the machine to malfunction, but then he does, and then nobody wins. Not Jerry, not Albert, and, not Major League Baseball. Albert might as well have hit one that shattered the windshield. At least that would have been hilarious. I say next time, make Jerry catch a pop fly and drive home happy.

The Home Run Derby is giving Neverland a run for its money. The camera cuts to a shot of kids having a gay old time about once every five minutes. Erin Andrews explains the good will behind a heartfelt promotional as the camera pans a bench full of hopeful young ball players.

Thomas: Was Erin Andrews the biatch who got hit by the foul ball?
Marc: hahaha i have no idea. i hope.
Thomas: shes hot though
Marc: yea but id rather see her get hit by a ball than jus look at her

Marc and I talk about the Phils while the derby drags on.

Marc: phils bout to get pedro...i jus wanna say ive been saying to get pedro since the beginning of the year.
Thomas: really? You don't think hes washed up?
Marc: dont know if he will work out. but ive been sayin that shit.

Did anyone hear Marc say this shit at the beginning of the season?

Chris Berman has the call for the derby. Nelson Cruz smacks a ball toward the stands and Berman is all over it with one of his clever puns. "And Nelson sends that one for a cruise around the world!"

Thomas: chris berman is a great choice.
Marc: he is a horrible baseball announcer though, when he does games.
Thomas: i know but for this he's perfect.
Marc: yea.
Thomas: because for a million home run calls you want variation. and he can come up with these ridiculous one liners every time.
Marc: hahaha i know

We're happy that Ryan Howard advances to the second round, but the Home Run Derby is taking longer than me telling a story. After three-plus hours, Prince Fielder is crowned the champion. MLB should change the format in a way that would shorten the event. It would spark more interest, which is just what they want, and they could fill the rest of the time slot with more ceremonial crap that people will watch anyway while they wait for the derby to start. You know this needs to happen when the Celebrity Softball Game was more entertaining than the Home Run Derby. Nelly stole the show, just like he used to at bar and batmitzvahs in 7th grade.

I'm goin down down baby yo street in a range rover, street sweeper baby...

Until next time, in the words of the cunning linguist Rick Renner, keep it easy.

Thoughts of a fat dutch kid

There are lots of random things I do that make people call me a ten year old. Sometimes, it's because of what I'm eating. Lifesavers candy probably falls in that category. That being acknowledged, we can move on to ask, what the fuck is up with Lifesavers wrappers?

When you want to eat a roll of Lifesavers, first you have to attack the top of the package. This always leads to getting the strange silver foil under your nails, and it can take a solid five minutes. Upon reaching the first colored ring, you must begin the process of unraveling the paper and foil tube. By the time you get to the last two or three pieces, you're left with a long, sloppy-looking string of paper. Of course, you can tear off the tail at any point, but it's just impractical. Why would anyone design a candy wrapper that makes you look ridiculous unless you rip it and stuff it in your pocket?

Look at the picture. The only thing that Lifesavers has changed about their package since the 50's is... well, nothing really. Why not put it in a small plastic tube, like the ones for M&M's Minis, the kind Nick uses as a Fleshlight.

I know no one cares, but I would argue that this has serious business implications. There are some things that we just accept are a bitch to open. Electronic products are often in plastic that seems impossible to get through without slicing open a finger. But candy? Really? That could stop a fat dutch kid from coming back.

In the interest of maintaining my image, I think I'll be switching to Fun Dip.

Don't Call It a Comeback

I consider many Shmuz Weekly readers to be a part of my family. We may not go to the mall for a portrait like the one above, but we've all wanted to lovingly choke each other at least once. When we first created Shmuz Weekly sophomore year of college, part of the idea was that it would somehow help keep the family connected. I'll forgo the usual long-winded explanation and just say that life got in the way of updates. But we're back. And I hate to sound like an abusive husband (femnazi), but I mean it this time.

I, for one, hopefully with the help of Shmuz vets and new writers who have finally grown some balls, will make Shmuz Weekly more consistent than Shaq's Twitter feed. The Twitter concept will be our new philosophy: We're like a "microblog," only slightly longer. I can't really make fun of something in 140 characters or less, but I understand that I don't need to write a novel, and that no one really reads my novels anyway. My friends prefer my sonnets.

Without further ado, here are some recent thoughts. As always, please post any responses, suggestions, harassment, etc. in the comments section, and let me know if you want to start writing.

1. Have you ever seen that guy at the train station peer way down the tracks in an effort to spot the train you're waiting for? He looks concerned, like he needs it to be on time. So he's anxious. Fine. But what comfort will he get from staring down the tracks? If he doesn't see it, he always looks disappointed, and yet there's only about a 30 second window when he will ever happen to catch a glimpse of it coming toward him. The thing is, this guy always checks for the train about 5 minutes before it's scheduled to arrive. In my experience, at least with dear old SEPTA, trains are either on time or late. Never early. Why check for them? It must be a compulsive habit. Like Steve touching his shoes... and doorways... and bushes... and signs...

2. While we're on the subject of SEPTA, I thought I should mention the QuietCar. From now on, on trains with three cars or more, the first car is the QuietCar. This means no cell phones and minimal, quiet conversation. If you have to take the train by yourself and you're looking for some live entertainment, take the QuietCar. There's always at least one person who gets on there and is either oblivious to the rules or doesn't give a shit. This person ends up arguing with someone who takes it upon themselves to champion the rules of the car, and because it's so damn quiet, everyone else gets to listen! As with many scenarios in life, the best candidate for the agitator is an old man.

3. Whoever came up with the idea for office cubicles was a sadistic bastard. They're like little prisons. You're confined to your space, and you can only really talk to the person next to you. Again, like prisons, the higher the walls, the more crushed the spirit.

Th-th-tha-that-that's all for now folks. In the meantime, please check out the website where the picture for this post came from: awkwardfamilyphotos.com* and check back for more soon.

*Thanks to the amazing Kate for showing me this site.

Summer time, and the living is...

For the annual music festival at my school, an event called May Day, the headlining band was Eve 6. That's a joke in itself, I know. You should have seen the reaction of the Indie music hippies. I think they would have been happier with a show from Miley Circus, or whatever the fuck that girl's name is. Anyway, you may remember Eve 6 from the days of 5th grade, when their single "Inside Out" (I would swallow my pride/I would choke on the rinds...) was at the top of modern rock charts. They also remained in the spotlight at many an 8th grade graduation with their hit "Here's to the Night" (Here's to the niiights we felt alive/here's to the tears you knew you'd cry...) After those two classics, where did they go? They released their last popular song 8 years ago.

I wonder how it made Eve 6 feel, to play in front of (maybe) 100 college students. Most people, like myself, simply stood, arms crossed, tapping a foot to the beat. Those few who were really rocking out had been drinking since 11 AM. Surely the lead singer recognized all of this as he recounted the group's struggles between songs. They broke up in 2004 and two of the three original members reunited in 2007.

I had no idea Eve 6 ever broke up, nor got back together.

It was sort of like hearing about a distant relative that got divorced, and then remarried, one of those random family updates that may be interesting to your parents, but means nothing to you.

I thought Eve 6 just fell off the face of the earth. Yet, in reality, the band faced some tough challenges that led them out of the public sphere and into a split. During that time, they probably grew in a number of ways, both as musicians and friends.

I would like you, dear readers, to think of Shmuz Weekly in terms of Eve 6. Like that band, we took a long hiatus, but we never truly left, and now we're back to fill that nostalgic soft spot left in your heart. (One for my tender, heart in a blender, watch it spin round to a beautiful oblivion!)

I think that part of my problem is that I feel the need to come up with entries that only explore one subject or idea. This leads me to not write something until I'm sure I can write ENOUGH about it. I realize now that both focused and rambling pieces have their respective merit. Such a realization should enable me to produce more, and we can start with some random things that I've been pondering the last month or so:

How funny is the culture of youth sports? When I say "youth," I suppose that means ages 5-12. I'm talking about the glory days. Tee Ball, baby.



Remember suiting up in your officially sponsored uniform? I swear to God, none of those businesses actually existed. They were always so random. On the front of my Little League shirts, it said "Narberth Baseball." On the back, it said anything from "Bob's Stamps and Collectibles" to "Odd Jobs, Etc." There is more uniform advertising in youth Tee Ball and baseball than in Major League Baseball. Just imagine Jimmy Rollins wearing a jersey emblazoned with "John Kennedy Ford of Feasterville." Wait a minute...

Are these small, walking billboards really effective? Do businesses look to Little League to attract new customers? Have you ever filled out a survey that looked like this?:

"How did you hear about us?"

a. Through a friend.
b. Yellow pages.
c. I saw you on the back of some kid's Tee Ball uniform.

No. People don't go to a place as a result of its local playground exposure.

In addition to advertising on the backs of children, youth sports forces parents to become friends. Why? Parents need connections for the carpool. I would argue that the carpool creates unnecessary stress for young athletes, because I cannot be the only one who had trouble giving directions to his own house at age 9. Sometimes, after a game, I piled into a mini van full of teammates with one kid's mom at the wheel. We usually ran into this little roadblock:

"Hey Thomas, what street do you live on, honey?"
"Uh... the one with the really big stop sign?"

Goddamn that was embarrassing. It was a moment in which no one really knew what to do, similar to when the coach's fat son stepped up to the tee. I'm not sure you can say you truly experienced youth sports unless you played on a team with the coach's fat son. Coach would either treat this goofball like a prodigy, or critique him like a Celtics fan on Doc Rivers.

A Tee Ball at bat for the coach's fat son could go in two different directions. If the coach favored his kid, everyone just stood there waiting as he hacked at the plastic black tube. The ball fell off, he reached down a chubby hand, put it back on the tee, and it fell off again before he even took a swing. The frustration set in. Sweat pouring beneath a tightly buttoned cap turned hot tears into streaks on his round face. The other ballplayers knelt down and plucked grass. "Come on, boy!" Coach cheered. "Good cut! You got it!" As everyone wondered when it would end, the tee fell forward and the ball rolled a foot in front of home plate. Everyone agreed it was not a foul ball, but rather a solid hit, and watched gratefully as the coach's fat son waddled to first base.

If the coach was an overbearing Dad trying to have an athletic career vicariously through his child, then the at bat went much quicker. After wincing at a few whiffs, the coach went up to his juicebox-guzzling boy, grabbed the bat, and "helped" him put the ball in play. No one challenged this practice. Sometimes it even seemed fair.

I'll tell you what's unfair though: the fact that I missed the boat on developing a signature. Yes, I switched topics just like that, and yes, I'm talking about a John Hancock. Will someone please explain to me at what age you simply make up the signature that you will use for the rest of your life? I know some people *COUGH steven yacobs END COUGH* who used to spend entire classes perfecting the unnecessary loops and swoops that indicated their seal of approval.



Given that I tragically overlooked this important stage of development, I now resort to an alternative method that makes me appear even more like a twelve year old. When I sign an important document, such as a Spring Garden I.D., I write my name in print, only sloppier. This takes longer than the average scribble, and prompts a raised eyebrow from any witnesses. Cashiers, for example, must wonder whether or not I can write in cursive. Let's just say I do that about as fast as I eat. Do schools even still force kids to learn that antiquated script? Do you still have to sign an honor code statement on the SAT using longhand? That section took me longer than the reading comprehension, and I almost asked the girl next to me if I could borrow a fucking quill.

I hope that by the time I'm 30, I have found an appropriate way to sign my name. I'm open to any and all suggestions in that department. In the mean time, I will leave you with a few conclusions:

- Happy Memorial Day. I hope you saw some amusing people get out of their cars in the standstill traffic on the way to the Shore.

- Digital clocks are replacing analog clocks faster than you think. The other day, I was in Blockbuster, and the only way I could find out the time was to ask an employee, who checked on the computer.

- My phone was M.I.A. that day, which made me realize that without my cell phone, I have no clue what time it is.

- New forms of media will not replace older forms because when you're taking a shit, a newspaper is easier to manage than a laptop.

- High gas prices currently enjoy official small talk status. Feel free to use them like you might use the weather.

- Learning a friend's middle name usually indicates a new level of closeness in your relationship with him or her.

- If you know mine, save some of that chuckle for next time.

Nick Renner's Favorite Clothing Store on the Tufts Campus