Greetings from the Great White North

Programming note: Here in the middle of nowhere 1MB pictures take forever to upload, so for a few pictures of the town I'm talking about in this post, you can check out my Flickr page. Please do so at your own peril. I do not take responsibility for any loss of joy or feelings of despair that you may find yourself overcome with.


I like my job a lot. I have a lot of responsibility, it is a lot of fun, and I like to think that I'm pretty good at it. One of the things that has made my job a lot of fun over the past year has been a contract that we put in place with the National Park Service to install audiovisual systems in their park Visitor Centers throughout the United States. This is, truth be told, probably the biggest reason that I haven't posted any meaningful blog posts since June. This summer, I've been sent to New Mexico, Arizona, Minnesota, and Cape Cod, all to the great chagrin of my immensely patient and understanding girlfriend.

But the trip that I have been dreading/looking forward to the most is the one that I am currently working through: a new Visitor Center/museum for the Northwest Arctic Heritage Center in Kotzebue, Alaska. I know what you're thinking - Gee, I think I should know where Kotzebue is - but I am here to tell you that you do not. Quick - make a mental picture of the state of Alaska. Got it? Now imagine the worst possible place to build a town.

That's where I am right now.

Yes, that's right. I'm closer to Russia than I am to Seattle right now. Hell, I'm closer to Russia than I am to Anchorage right now. I am above the Arctic Circle. I am 4 hours behind Baltimore. I am a short plane ride to the got-damn North Pole.

All of that to me is extremely neat, and before I go any further I would like to make sure that everyone knows that I am aware of how rare of an opportunity this is, and how I should treasure every moment, and how I'll never get this chance again blah blah blah.

But this place sucks. Hard.

It is possibly the most depressingly dark and foreboding town that I've ever been to or seen. It is extremely quiet, and almost always overcast and damp. Nobody talks or looks at you, and I swear to god that every building has a boarded-up window in it. And before you say that I don't know what I'm talking about when it comes to dilapidated buildings, remember that I do live in Baltimore City. This place is twenty times more depressing than East Baltimore. I'm not exactly sure why, but it is.

My best guess is that I don't feel as though the residents here know any better. But they have to, right? This is 2009...its not like they don't have the Internet or TV. But it seems as though no one here cares about how their house looks, or how much garbage is piled in their front 'yard', or how many broken-down dog sleds they leave 'round back. I guess they'll get to cleaning it up someday, but I swear that I haven't seen anyone cleaning anything since I've been here.

What I really don't understand, above all else, is what would draw anyone to live out here. And yes, I know, most of the people here didn't move here but were born here. But they can leave at any time. Again, this is 2009. There's an airport within walking distance of everywhere in the town that can take them to Anchorage, and from there anywhere else in the universe. They don't have to stay here, where the number of available jobs probably can be counted on your right hand and where the cost of groceries are so prohibitively expensive your money wouldn't get you anything anyway. Why would you want to try twenty times as hard to find a job that doesn't pay you any more than anywhere else just for the privilege of living in a run-down depressing dirt-bag town where your money is worth less than everywhere else? It just doesn't add up for me.

And as far as I'm concerned, the whole 'this is the only place I know' argument doesn't hold any water any more. Everyone has a marketable skill, and it only makes perfect sense to use that skill to make money where it can buy you things you want. Not only does Kotzebue have a severe shortage on things that people want, like say, clean drinking water, when it is available, it costs more than six times as much as everywhere else on the planet. Don't believe me?



Best $6.19 I ever spent.

For a lot of the remote places that I've been to, I've often found myself thinking, 'I would never want to live here in a million years, but I can understand why these people do, because _____', where _______ is usually beautiful scenery, or cheap land, or being away from the big city, or whatever. I can't find the reason here. Well, unless you're really, really into 4-wheelers and being able to drive them down Main Street. In which case, have I got the place for you.

And if all of that wasn't enough...you can't buy alcohol here. Yes, as Alaska's final kick in the nuts to itself, it took away the one thing that could make this place bearable.

I wanna come home.

Just to Keep it Going

Hehe...whelp, sorry about the whole 'not-writing-any-blogs-for-a-couple-of-months' thing. Things have been crazy at the ol' mill. I've been sent off to the five corners of the globe, or at least the US - Arizona, New Mexico, Minnesota, Cape Cod, and soon, Alaska. But recently I was reminded that I haven't updated the site in a while, so I figured I would write something and at least make Blogspot.com think this is still an active site.

So,

something.

I'll be back - I promise.

Roger Clemens Writes a Book

I'm not even going to pretend that I can write anything this funny, but Jon Bois from Progressive Boink can, and I can certainly link to it in a vain attempt to associate myself with it:

Roger Clemens wants to write a book, just like Jose Canseco's. Here's Chapter 5 (unedited, of course):

CHAPTER 5: What Hath God Wraught???

Roger Clemens was a housewholed name. Even 1-day-old babies across the Fruited Plain, rattling they're baby toys and crapping themselfs, knew of the great "Rocketman" (Roger Clemens). He was a man who Lifted the Spirits of the Nation uponst his furrow'd shoulders and bench pressed it into Heaven. When he retires, even the most leather-jacketed of men will weep.

He stood there on the pitcher's mount. He stared up at the stands. Announced attendance: a freaking buttload. Time stood still and it did that Ken Burns thing where some one play's a piano and clumsy-footed children run the bases in slow-mow. "Time to Genuflect," remarked Roger.

He look't at the baseball he held in his artisan, meaty hands. Fact: a baseball is exactly 5 inches in diameter. Fact: a baseball is comprosed of exactly 5,000 stitches. But it was not the maths of the Modern Age that juxtaposed Roger at this particular time. Rather: "how am I going to strike out this Bozo?"

The Bozo in question was Mike Piazza. Mike Piazza was an stupid nerd whom was loathed by all. He stood in the batting circle, one abreast, and turn'd to face the fans. He did that thing where you put you're thumb on you're nose and wiggle around you're other fingers! The fans where Enraged. "Nyah!" he taunted. "Nyahhhhh!" Also, one time he threw rocks at Maya Angelou. Our nation's freaking Poet Larroquette. Only God knows why. What a butt head.

Anyway, but, however, I Digress. Piazza walked up to the batter's box, as though a dumb guy walking up to the batter's box. "Oh crap," thought Roger. "This guy is going to call his shot." Sure enough. Piazza cupp'd his hands and bellow'd to the Heavens, "SHOT!" The towns people trembled, but; Roger didn't tremble. Trembling is for Moral Midgets.

I went through the Signs with my catcher. "Do you think it was unrealistic that the aliens could die if you poured water on them," he said. "Yes," I said. (This part of the story is just a joke [not real]).

Mike Piazza haunch'd over and awaited for the pitch. Roger leveraged his buttocks and through the baseball.

[NOTE: If this book gets made into a movie, make this part go into slow motion and play "Jeremy" by Pearl Jam. Thanks, Rog]

"STRIKE ONE," scuttled the Umpire. To more strikes. That's all Roger needed. He was done clowning around. He threw another fast ball, inside and away. It nailed the middle corner with the beautiful craftsmanship of an agile carpentress. Strike two.

Everyone stood up and cheer'd a heavenly chorus. The crowd was extemporaneous. Mike Piazza expected a fastball; but, Roger threw an even faster fastball. Swing and a Mrs. And it was strike three. The catcher said, "Crap, my freaking hand hurts!" Piazza said, "I'll get you next time, Clemens!" Then a bird pooped on his head. Clemens was carted aboudst the field in a Horse Driven Chariot. He had won the game. He had faced down Mike Piazza and sent him to Kingdom Kong. [NOTE: is it Kingdom Come or Kingdom Kong? Looked it up on AltaVista, results inconclusive.]

Then Brian McNamee came on the field and said a bunch of stupid bull pucky. Then Skylab fell on him.


CHAPTER 6: The Sound and the Furious

Love it.

Where Major League Baseball Pays Attention to Me (finally)

So I woke up this morning, as I often do, to not only the sound of my cat crying right above my face, but thinking of the Orioles and their prospects for success in the future. As everyone knows, Baltimore plays in the toughest division in baseball, the AL East, where not only the red sox and yankees hold sway, but which now also features a much-improved Toronto team and a Tampa Bay team that went to the World Series last year.

I'll be the first to tell you: tough shit. It is what it is. As much as I hate the fact that we play in a division wherein we could win 90 games and still come in third place, I don't mind the challenge, and at least we can never say we won the division by default, like San Diego did in 2005 (with a .502 winning percentage). Plus, as bad as we might be, we will still pack Camden Yards (and downtown Baltimore) with idiots with disposable incomes every time the red sox and yankees come to town.

Still, it frustrates me that there will likely be no let-up in the determinable future. Unless the NY somehow stops being the most recognizable baseball franchise in the world and the symbol of Americana for many foreigners (not likely), or they for some reason decide to stop spending tons of money on good baseball players (not likely), they will be good forever. Unless Boston somehow stops hiring smart people like Bill James and Theo Epstein and running their franchise like a smart version of the yankees (not likely), they will be good forever.

So the best chance for Baltimore is to do something like Tampa Bay did last year: wait until your prospects that you have been stockpiling for years come to fruition, make a couple of smart trades to fill gaps, get extremely lucky, and hope that Boston and NY have injury problems to have a shot at it for one year. After that, everyone will be gunning for you and you won't have any money left anyway, so good luck to you. That sound is my heart breaking.

Anyway, I woke up this morning thinking about how hopeless it is to be an O's fan and also how cool it could be if there was a divisional re-alignment that went North, Central, and South instead of East, Central, and West. I figure it would work out like this:

AL North:
Boston
Toronto
Detroit
Minnesota
Seattle

AL Central:
New York
Baltimore
Chicago
Cleveland
Oakland

AL South:
Tampa Bay
Kansas City
Texas
LA Angels of wtf

How cool is that? Right now (assuming the current schedule) the standings would look like this:

AL North:

BOS     33  24 .579

TOR     33  27 .550  

DET     31  26 .544

SEA     28  29 .491

MIN     28  31 .475

AL Central:

NYA     34  23 .596

CHA     27  31 .466

OAK     26  30 .464 

CLE     25  34 .424

BAL     24  33 .421 

AL South:

TEX     33  24 .579

LAA     28  27 .509

TB      29  30 .492

KC      24  32 .429

That AL North is shaping up to be a pretty hot race down the stretch.  The AL Central is all but locked up, but the AL South
could still go a bunch of different ways.

Okay, so Baltimore would still have no chance this year, but that's not the point.  I would have to think that these divisions would be more competitive. 

That took longer to do than I thought it would.  I'll do the NL tomorrow.  NIN tonight!!!!

Arrre Youuuuu Readddyyyyyy

One of the things that I always thought would be the coolest part of being a Major League baseball player when I was a kid was the chance to pick out your very own walk-up theme song. You know, the song that plays over the PA when you come up to bat. (This goes a long way to explain my strange relationship with baseball and other professional sports. Other things I think would be great perks to being a Major Leaguer: picking your own number, seeing yourself in a video game, getting to wear throwback jerseys, etc.)

I didn't realize until I met a friend at work who was into the same stupid aspects of baseball that I was, and we had multiple lengthy discussions about not only what our choices of walk-up music would be, but why certain Major League players picked the songs they did. The failing of our logic, however, is that Major Leaguers, for the most part, are musical idiots and don't put 1/16th of the effort into picking a song out that we would.

Whereas I would pick a song like "The Promised Land" by Springsteen or the cool rocking part of "Thru and Thru" by the Rolling Stones due to cool lyrics and music, it turns out that real ballplayers pick songs for some of the following reasons:

"A friend of mine on the [St. Louis] Cardinals picked it out for me. I like that it doesn't have words."

"I really don't care. As long as it rocks, that's fine."

"It needs a good beat. Something that doesn't put you to sleep."

"Whatever they want to play. It doesn't make a different [sic] to me."

Guys. C'mon! You are professional ball players! Take delight in getting to be involved in the thrilling minutiae that idiots like me would give their right pinkie to think about! At least pick a song you like or pretend to give a shit about. Because whether or not you care, there will always be nerds like my friend and I who will over-analyze why you picked a song called "Going Down".

Mister Anderson...

Turns out Brady Anderson is still alive~! Who knew, right? Or, as privatedialect puts it:

I find it laughable that Brady Anderson is writing articles that are anything but omissions of immense steroid use and / or accusatory blogs on how the Twilight vampires stole his look.

Actually I am just kidding. That was a pretty well written article for a retired muscle head. He brings up some very, very, valid points. I think that there are three main reasons why Angelos has such a bad rap with Baltimore.

1. People hate losing ... and after years and years of doing so it seems easy to blame the one constant.

2. People are f***ing sheep. One idiot says, " F*** Angelos " and everyone else is ready to follow.

3. He is ugly. I mean not to sound superficial but people are. And man is he ugly. Probably has really , really , bad breath too.

Seriously, though, I think ol' Sideburns makes some very good points. Peter Angelos, while certainly not the best owner in the world, has been demonized, and I believe extremely unjustly so over the last couple of years. Sure, when Mike Flanagan and Jim Duquette and all the rest of the bumbling fools who have been our GMs over the last 10 years were in charge, Angelos may have poked his head in one or two too many trades or free-agent deals.

But since Andy MacPhail has taken over, Angelos has really stepped out of the spotlight and let the people who know baseball run the show. And in the meantime, he has spent the money when he has had to. He locked up fan favorites and building blocks Nick Markakis and Brian Roberts, returned 'Baltimore' to the road jerseys, and has kept ticket prices relatively low and hasn't sold the naming rights to the best stadium in baseball (yet).

So lay off the ugly old toad.

The Man-Child Cometh

Matt Wieters is coming. Friday. Here to usher in a new realm of peace, prosperity, and bobbleheads to Baltimore. Or, as Shysterball puts it:

The smallest crowd in the history of Camden Yards showed up to watch the Blue Jays fall further into the abyss. The crowds will be larger this weekend, however, as Matt Wieters will be called up to make his Major League debut. Prediction: Mere anarchy will be loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence will be drowned. The best will lack all conviction, while the worst will be full of passionate intensity.

Indeed.