In Which We Fix the Classics

Holly Wilson always dreamed of the "perfect wedding."  Even as a young girl, she would flip through bridal magazines and clip pictures of her favorite dresses and veils and other wedding accessories.  Throughout high school and college, she would at least partially judge every boy she dated by how she imagined he would look in a tuxedo, standing at the altar, slipping a ring on her finger.  Of course, when the time came to plan her own wedding, she made it into a full-time job (much to the chagrin of her colleagues and supervisor at the dental office where she worked as a receptionist).  Venue, decorations, flowers, bridesmaid dresses, invitations--no detail was too small for Holly to obsess over.  On the big day, Holly looked radiant; her groom seemed sprung from the pages of a men's fashion magazine.  Everything was perfect!  And then midway through the ceremony, the sprinkler system in the church inexplicably went off, drenching the gathered celebrants before they could scramble for cover.  Holly laughed it off as best she could, but deep down she was traumatized--and the marriage itself,  seemingly cursed at the outset, never recovered.  Less than two years later, Holly and her husband went their separate ways.

This isn't a sad story, though.  Holly soon met someone else, someone superior to her first husband in all respects.  They fell in love and quickly decided to get married, and Holly, perhaps chastened by her first experience, vowed not to get too overwhelmed in the planning.  The one thing she did decide immediately, though, was that she would hold this wedding outdoors, in a beautiful spot in a local park, away from any temperamental fire-suppression technology.  On the day itself, her friends and family gathered at the appointed location, under a majestic elm, next to a gently burbling brook.  Birds twittered charmingly, and Holly's Aunt Michelle swore she even saw a deer peeking out from behind a stand of trees not far from the wedding party.  Everything was perfect!  And then, as the priest began the ceremony, the sunny skies suddenly darkened and, despite all meteorological assurances to the contrary, a tremendous rain cascaded down on Holly's wedding party.

There.  You're welcome, Alanis!

Cyclone Fever! Catch It!

Last night, I sojourned with FOS and SOFOS to Citi Field, where we enjoyed a Mets' win on an altogether perfect night for baseball.  My thirst for the sport, though, was not quite slaked (in fairness, the Mets have a recent history of leaving their fans unslaked--I didn't even get to see David Wright!).  So today I took in my first ever minor-league game (yes, yes, "except for the Mets! heh, heh, heh"--bite me) at the Coney Island home of the Brooklyn Cyclones, a "short-season A-ball" affiliate of those same New York Mets.

Walking down the boardwalk to MCU Park, I passed a family--mother, father, two kids--who were also heading to the game.  I discovered this by overhearing their conversation. I also discovered that they were British.  And I'm not talking football-hooligan-oy-give-us-a-pint-mate British; these were Colin Firth and Emma Thompson in Timon of Athens Brits!  The little boy, maybe six years old, asked, "Daddy, whom are we rooting for?"

"We're rooting for the Brooklyn Cyyy-clones, Dear."

"Whom are they playing against?"  (I swear to GOD I am not making this up!)

"Erm. . . The 'Connecticut Tiii-gers.' Yes, I believe they're from the upstate portion of New York."

Then the mother chimed in, "No, Darling, Connecticut is another state."

"Oh, I see.  Well, Kevin, I'm afraid I have given you some incorrect information."--VERBATIM!--"It seems that the Connecticut team is not from New York ahfter all."

All I could think at this point was, "Oh, please God, let these people be sitting next to me!"  Alas, they were not.

The stadium is, as you might expect, a fraction of the size of Citi Field, seating about 7,500 people as opposed to 40,000-plus.  I had a great seat: twelfth row, right behind home plate, but really nobody is terribly far from the action.  Considering how close I was to the field, I was struck by how normally proportioned the players were: These were clearly kids, all a ways off from the Major Leagues.  The average age was about twenty, and the average build was high-school basketball benchwarmer; no hint of steroid abuse here.  But once the game started, it was baseball.  The pitchers may not have been throwing 98-mile-an-hour fastballs and 12-6 curves, but they threw hard; the hitters made contact (or not), just as Major Leaguers would.  And in the end, the Cyclones won, so the day can be considered a success.

But most notable was the atmosphere.  Whereas at Citi Field--or any Major League venue--everything is slick and highly polished, at MCU Park, everything was just a bit tackier.  It was "Camp Day" at the stadium, referring to the numerous day camps from around the Tri-State area making field trips to the game, but "camp" might just as well have referred to the ironic fidelity to minor-league spirit manifested by the game's incidentals.

First, the game had a sort of master of ceremonies, the "King of Kings County," a tummler of Kramdenesque proportions.  In a blaring red vest and pants and wearing a red velvet crown, the King exhorted the crowd to cheer ever-more lustily for the hometown team.  He also presented festivities between innings, including a three-legged race between two fans and two members of the Brooklyn Beach Bums cheering squad (yes, cheerleaders!); a "dizzy race," involving two fans racing after spinning around with their foreheads on bats; a baserunning race between a young fan and the Cyclones' mascot, Sandy the Seagull.

(DIGRESSION: Isn't there something unfortunate about a boardwalk-based entertainment outfit presenting anything named "Sandy"? EOD)

There were also the requisite t-shirt launches--I still have never caught a t-shirt at a sporting venue, so, y'know, my life remains empty--and dance routines.  The hot-dog race was exciting (Mustard won in what must be considered a major upset to anyone who follows the snack-and-condiment racing circuit).  The Cyclones also employ a young man, the Brooklyn Buccaneer, who wears a pirate outfit and runs screaming down the right field line waving banners every time the Cyclones score--because, obviously, when you think of Coney Island, you think of. . . pirates. . .?

I don't know whether the whole sideshow is typical of a minor-league experience.  It felt authentic--in a thoroughly kitschy sort of way--but that could just mean my resistance to irony has been hopelessly depleted. 

All in the Timing

Everyone is a near miss.  Some nearer than others.

"As Melissa Fryback, 42, was heading into the home stretch, she realized she was on pace for one of her best times ever. She steeled herself for the last three miles and finished in 3 hours 44 minutes. She met up with her boyfriend, and the two had made it about two blocks from the finish line when they heard the blasts. . . .

“'I can’t help but wonder that if I hadn’t pushed like that, it could have been me,' she said."

"War Zone at Mile 26: ‘So Many People Without Legs’"

Comments from just two of the 25,000 or so people who took part in yesterday's Boston Marathon. 

FORTUNE
Runner 18493 can't believe it.  Of all the days to run her personal best!  The Marathon! In 3:44!  And then, what happened at the end.  She can't believe it.  If she had run her normal pace. . . . She can scarcely bear to think about it.  Fortune.  But not just fortune, really, when you think about it.  She earned it.  She ran her best time.  This was not dumb luck.  This was virtue rewarded: a gift from the Gods in recognition of her hard work.  Of course, she would never say this publicly, such sentiments being inappropriate in light of. . . everything.  But still, if she does--privately--view her unscathed escape as some karmic blessing. . . well certainly no one ould blame her?

IRONY
Runner 21006 can't believe it.  Of all the days to run her personal best.  The Marathon!  Sure, she started way back in the pack, but here she is, approaching the finish in three hours and forty-four minutes!  All her training, all her hard work, rewarded.  She can see the finish line up ahead, hear the cheers of the crowd.  She smiles and glances at her watch: 2:50. Not bad.

Monday Miscellany (Saturday Edition)

Dr. Phillipe Charlier is the most famous forensic scientist in France, where, apparently, they have a most famous forensic scientist.  Dr. Charlier came to prominence in 2007, when he led a team of researchers in an investigation of bone fragments said to belong to Jeanne d'Arc, which is French for Jeannie Dark, which is often translated in English as Joan of Arc.  The team exposed the relics as fakes, consisting not of the remains of a psychotic French teenager but of "a human rib, bits of apparently carbonized wood, a fragment of linen and a cat femur."

Has anyone considered that the human rib may, in fact, have belonged to Joan of Arc and that she was eaten by a cat?  Or that Joan of Arc may simply have been a cat herself?  Really, that story would make a helluva lot more sense than the other one about some adolescent hearing the voice of God and leading French armies to victory.

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Tomorrow, Andy Murray becomes the first Briton in 73 years to compete for the men's championship at Wimbledon.  In order to become the first Brit to win Wimbledon since 1936, all he has to do is defeat the six-time champion and arguably greatest player in history, Roger Federer.  All of England will be watching.  No pressure, though.

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Today, on my way to the supermarket, I passed a martial arts studio.  The doors were open and from within, blasting from the stereo as the assembled students practiced, was "Eye of the Tiger."  Do people have no sense of irony?

Irony Watch (A Brief Entry)

Observed on the freeway: A billboard.  An electronic billboard.  And not some little digital display, either, but a full-on, high-def, LCD monstrosity that one cannot help but imagine has caused many a distracted driver to swerve into oncoming traffic.

And what's on this billboard?  An ad from Chevron.

And what is the message of this ad?

"Use less energy."

Seriously.

Discuss.