Confessions of a Freelancer

(Please Note: I wrote this article for the Western Art Directors of California (WADC) quite awhile back. But, it's funny because a lot of what I wrote here still rings true. For those who don't know me, I've worked 20-plus years as an advertising copywriter, and the last 15 years in a freelance capacity.)

They asked me to write an article about freelancing. Well, it used to be called freelancing, back in the 80’s. Now it’s called contracting. Which, in a way, shows how much things have changed.

Freelancing conjures up visuals of flip-flops and Vaurnets, back in the days when you needed a typesetter. Things were much more mellow back then. You could get away with playing the distant, quirky, creative type. It was okay if you dressed casual, and slept in your car the night before. I told my parents back home that I had hit it big in the mid-80’s and was living at the Fairmont. Actually, I was living in the back seat of a 1968 Fairmount. In the 80’s, you could be late for a brainstorming session and it was no big deal. If you couldn’t make it, you’d call and say you were somewhere you weren’t, and they couldn’t catch ya because they didn’t have Star #69 or Caller I.D. back then.

It was a time of super- soft deadlines, vague budgets, open purchase orders with “not to exceed” prices, working with totally laid-back clients who said “cool” a lot. All our ideas were brilliant. All of our designs fine art. Boy, were we full of it, or what?

Contracting is the accepted term of the 90’s , and it’s much more formal. It connotes people in suits, shaking hands a lot, videoconferencing, tons of memos and e-mails and painfully long downloads. Six people needing to approve a single data sheet design, one at each corner of the globe. Telecommuting from Starbucks with two cellulars, a laptop, a Newton, a beeper, and enough pepper spray to quell a San Quentin prison riot.

Contracting has a more ominous sound now, too. You are under contract, so you better meet the deadline and do a good job or you and your project, and possibly your fee, will be whacked, downsized or eliminated altogether. Heaven forbid your contact decides to take three months “mental health leave”. Yes, it’s more complicated being a freelancer now, there’s more competition, but it still beats the mourning commute and a boss that makes Rasputin look endearing.

Clues to Working With Artistic Types

Even though I am a copywriter and not a graphic designer, I think I have a few interesting things to share about designers that I’ve worked with, most of them contractors like myself. Most of the time, I’ve enjoyed the relationships that I’ve established with artists of all kinds. I wish I could say the same about those people on the client side. Some of them have been pure delights. Some have not, and have surely helped to age me well past my 40 years. I have enough gray in my hair to put Grecian Formula on the NASDAQ, most of it attributable to problem clients.

There are great clients or horrible clients. If you don’t get Mr. Rogers, you get Attila the Hun. There doesn’t seem to be any in between. And that’s if there’s only one client to deal with on a job, which nowadays is rare. With a two-headed client, it’s even worse. Dr. Jekyll likes your work, but why is Mr. Hyde vomiting? And heaven forbid it’s a team effort, in which case you get to deal with more personalities than Sybil.

Another thing I can’t stand is when clients adopt these stringent requirements when they are looking for a contractor to work on a particular project. “We’re looking for a designer who has experience doing annual reports for small porcelain thimble manufacturers in the Midwest. They must also know Framemaker, Pagemaker, Excel, C++, Cobol and SQL. It would also help if the person likes Viagra jokes and knows the words to “Muskrat Love”.”

These people will search and search for the right candidate, conducting interviews and viewing portfolios, making everybody jump around like circus chimps, hopping dutifully through these ridiculous hoops they’ve concocted. All the while knowing that they’ll eventually end up giving the job to somebody’s son who is taking art classes at De Anza and couldn’t operate an etch a sketch with both hands. One time a big-time creative director told me that he didn’t think I was qualified to do an ad for a homebuilder because I had never personally bought a new home. I told him I’d never been pregnant either, but that I did one helluva brochure for Planned Parenthood.

Rule #1: Let Artists Create

I learned something long ago about working with artists, and that is don’t tell them what to do. The less direction the better. Let them do their job. Why is it that everybody thinks he or she is a designer? I mean, when your plumber gets under your sink, do you get down there to advise, you and him, the sweat and Drain-O and acres of butt-crack? Of course not.

When Michaelangelo was painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, did they say, “Don’t you think that cherub there should be smiling more?” Did they tell Warhol to junk the soup can and go with a milk carton? Mr. Van Gogh, we love the self-portrait. We’d just like you to add one ear, that’s all. You went to school, studied real hard to become a graphic designer, you’ve done a lot of incredible work and everyone really, really likes you. You’ve won all kinds of awards, you’ve earned respect in the industry and from your peers. So, why shouldn’t it bug you just a little when some receptionist who slept with the right CEO and is now the marcom manager tells you how to layout a brochure? We’ve all been there.

It Takes All Kinds

Many of the designers I have worked with seem to find a niche and stick with it. You see their work, do projects with them, and after awhile, you realize all of their stuff looks a lot alike.

I have been able to categorize several types over the years. First, you have the hypoglemics. They just have to bleed everything off the page. If it’s still breathing, let it bleed. They can’t work with borders, oh no. Bleed it! Bleed it onto the next page! Bleed it onto the floor! The walls. If there isn’t something like a graphic tourniquet for these poor souls, there should be! On the other end of that spectrum are what I call the “White Space Cadets”. Rather than lots of solid color running off in all directions, they promote the stark, the understated, with lots of free, loose, empty, white space. Less is more, these artists feel. Until they realize that people aren’t going to fork over the big bucks for the cover of the White Album anymore. It’s been done. Throw some type in there, or something. And put some clothes on.

Other types of artists I’ve encountered over time include font junkies and what I call crockpotters, those artists that want to use every little trick they’ve learned on every single project they do. Hey, even Houdini saved a couple for the next show.

I shouldn’t talk, really. I myself have an arsenal of copywriting tricks I implement, sometimes way too much. I guess we’re all guilty of it, but if it works, why not?

Well, those are some of my thoughts. I have more, but I know you realize that.

Freelancing. Contracting. What term they will use in the new millenium is anybody’s guess. It’s not a bad gig, though. It has allowed me to exercise a lot of free time. It has allowed me the luxury of writing this article. For all the downside I still love it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to meet with Attila for lunch. Right after I finish Mr. Rogers’ brochure.

(If you're a graphic designer, advertising copywriter, photographer or just want to network with a bunch of creative types, you might want to consider joining WADC. It is a great organization and they probably have a chapter near you. Their web site is: www.wadc.org. Also, if someone needs ad copywriting services and is looking for someone who is fast, creative and very affordable, my web site is: www.smartercopy.com.)

Today I'm Chilling

As you can see, I've been posting a lot, almost 3 times a day, and I know I can't keep it up forever. I think some of my readers are suffering from what's called "Content Overload". So, today is Friday and I'm going to just chill. Maybe I'll go on a long walk down to the Palace of Fine Arts. Maybe I'll go swimming at Aquatic Park. Maybe I'll go to the DeYoung Museum or to the Zoo. Or maybe I'll do absolutely nothing!

Ratty Pulls a Bambino

Ratdog got into the large dog food bag in the kitchen and pulled a major Babe Ruth with the Science Diet. He gorged himself at lightning speed, promptly overdosed on the stuff and eventually projectile vomited all over my office floor. Prior to that he looked like a snake who had just swallowed a baby deer or a large bird. He had a belly like Idi Amin after eating a few folks. Right now, he's on his pillow directly behind me giving me the evil eye. Like somehow it was my fault. I'm sure he'll use this as an excuse not to come to work tomorrow.

Sister Sandy Koufax, a short story about life & baseball by Hymie Laredo [PART TWO]

Because I attended primarily parochial schools throughout my pre-college educational career, I absorbed more than my share of physical abuse from my instructors, primarily priests and nuns, who never seemed to fully appreciate or tolerate my quick wit and incredible comic insight.
In public school, where I was always certain the administration would have more easily grasped my unique style of satire if given the chance, physically assaulting disruptive students as a way to keep them in line was discouraged and, in fact, illegal. The Catholics, however, had no problem with it.
My parents realized early on that public school was not going to be the solution to my varied range of behavioral problems. I needed the discipline of the Catholic school system. In public school, hooliganism was rampant – in parochial school, it was just as bad, but Catholic kids over the years had learned to hide it better.
It wasn’t like my parents were Catholic. My folks sent me to Catholic schools for the discipline and nothing else. These nuns and priests who had essentially made my life a living hell for a good portion of my life didn’t know it, but they had been hired for their disciplinary muscle, and that’s all. Bodyguards in habits and collars, basically.
Conversely, every adult in authority at St. Basil’s the Venerable -- where I matriculated during my elementary and middle school years -- all the way from the bearded cafeteria lady to the blind crossing guard, to the grizzled old alcoholic janitor who was later fired for drinking all the holy wine, had free rein to smack me when provoked. They were not only permitted to do so, but encouraged, and, in fact, this aspect of the school was one of the primary reasons my parents had sent me there in the first place.
It was a reign of terror and violence that would shadow me throughout my schooling. It was a basic lesson -- open your mouth, get whacked upside the head. It was a simple process of association, a sick experiment not unlike the horrible things Pavlov did to his poor dogs. At least the pooches got fed every now and then. All I got was pummeled. I was hearing bells, all right, but I wasn’t salivating. The ringing in my ears was from the quick lefts and roundhouse rights I was on the business-side of almost hourly at St. Basil’s.
It’s amusing in a way to think that of all the things that happened to me in Catholic school, both good and bad, the only times I can clearly remember are the numerous instances where I got whacked around for some silly prank I pulled or some smart-ass remark I made. Like a punchy old boxer long retired from the ring, the countless beatings I took; those fleeting instances of extreme discomfort and humiliation; appear in my mind just like they happened only yesterday. They play themselves out in slow motion sometimes, blow-by-blow, blood and pieces of flesh flying everywhere, just like those great fight scenes in “Raging Bull".
Initially, during the pre-confirmation years, the nuns were the ones who took on the arduous chore of administering to me the discipline I was evidently so much in need of. Over time, their forms of torture evolved as they became more sophisticated and increasingly frustrated by my antics.
The first form of this was the old wooden ruler over the knuckles routine. This hurt considerably, and could have been a marvelous deterrent if it wasn’t so logistically impractical. For example, you couldn’t perform it on an unwilling victim without dragging them kicking and screaming. And then good luck trying to subdue someone long enough to crack ‘em a good one. Anyone who was dumb enough to stand there while they got whacked with a piece of wood with a metal rod in the middle, like the newer rulers had, was deserving of such a punishment anyway.
The simple truth was that this once reliable behavior modifier may have worked in the past when kids were more in awe of authority, but in the seventies, it was passé. Like trying to get the country to switch over to the metric system, it was a noble gesture, they gave it a solid effort, but in the end, it was unsuccessful. The priests and nuns eventually abandoned the ruler method of punishment, and began to look elsewhere in pursuit of the perfect deterrent for smart asses like myself.
The second method of retribution I encountered was the flying blackboard eraser, familiar to anyone who has ever gone to Catholic school. About the size of a small brick, I soon learned that this missile made of cloth and wood, when thrown by a seasoned professional, flew across the classroom with amazing speed and accuracy. And, upon reaching its destination -- which, in most instances, consisted of my large, crew cut head, and enormous, fan-like Alfred E. Neuman ear lobes, -- consistently inflicted extreme pain.
Eventually, I was made aware of the fact that the blackboard eraser was the sisterhood’s primary weapon of choice at St. Basil’s. Each and every nun threw it well, like it was something they taught in the convent, right along with the classes in chastity and the scriptures.
There wasn’t a slouch in the bunch--all of them, from Sister Astor to Sister Gertrude (though she was a little older and nursed a bad case of bursitis), could throw the thing fast and true.
To this day, I still hold one particular nun, Sister Sandy Koufax, in total awe. Her real name was Sister Sandy, but the Koufax was added many years before I came to St. Basil’s. And it was certainly well-deserved.
Sister Sandy had all the qualities of a truly great eraser thrower, natural abilities you can’t teach, like dead-on aim and the kind of velocity they can only gauge with a speed gun. But, the most amazing thing about Sister Sandy was her incredible stamina. She finished better than the great Cy Young, never wavering or showing a hint of fatigue.
Heat, cold, rain, wind, sleet, hail, old reliable Sister Sandy was rock solid and undeterred day after day, from the moment morning bell sounded, all the way through after-school sports. She seemed to get stronger rather than tire after lunch. I always felt that she relished the competition I provided, and I was prepared to test her at every turn.
Sometimes, if they got lucky, students could take control of a classroom late in the afternoon when it was hot and humid and they sensed that a young, rookie nun’s arm was tiring and concentration waning. A couple of limp, errant throws of the eraser told you that this particular nun could be had – that she was vulnerable and you could get away with any misbehavior you fancied. Like an injured gazelle being subdued by a pack of hungry lions, the prey was yours.
On occasion, as an extreme measure, Sister Superior would call for a reliever, like a novice priest or a nun-in-training, to stop the barrage of unruliness that always took place when some poor nun couldn’t throw strikes anymore.
But, even a steady stopper knew that by then it was too late. The convicts were in charge now. The suddenly harmless erasers sat helplessly on the ledge below the chalkboard, untested and about as intimidating as Bambi.
Chaos reigned supreme during those rare sweet moments of childish revolt, the air filled was with freedom and a sea of spit balls, sticking to anything and everything, including the crucifix above the door and the traditional picture of the Last Supper, making it appear for a moment as though Christ and the twelve disciples were dining on wet clumps of notebook paper instead of bread and wine.
Mischievous little boys snapping the girls’ bra straps amid shrieks of horror, giving each other melvins in a huge, out-of-control snuggy frenzy, finally turning on the fat, sweaty, kid with the glasses, just like poor “Piggy” in “Lord of The Flies”.
That never happened in Sister Sandy’s class, though. Not with Koufax. She was a closer, a workhouse, and because we knew she’d be sharp every day, she was always unquestionably in charge.
Just when you thought you’d gotten over on her, she’d fool you. Sister Sandy had a curve just like Koufax, a sneaky pitch that looked like it was going to hit someone two rows of desks over, when suddenly, it veered viciously in your direction , and “whap”, you got it!
Her accuracy was uncanny -- she reminded me a lot of Jim “Catfish” Hunter that way. Her strike zone went from the base of the neck to the top of the cranium. But, her favorite target was right in the middle of the forehead, which left a white chalky circle that looked kind of like the ash spot they gave you in the same location every Ash Wednesday.
It was her signature move, and when it was done just right, she got you precisely between the eyes. You’d leave the mark there on your skull as long as you could, even though it would disgrace you with the good kids, like the big “A” they used to give to adulterers in the early days of the American colonies.
But, the goof offs and cut-ups thought it was neat -- like a tattoo that said, “Bad to the Bone” or something. But, you wouldn’t wipe it off as a show of respect to Sandy, as if to say begrudgingly, “I got nailed by the very best.” Because when Sister Sandy hit you with a blackboard eraser, it was like striking out against Bob Feller -- there was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.
Sister Sandy had little things she’d do when she’d throw too. She’d hide Vaseline under her nun’s hat and sneak some onto the eraser, causing it to dip and hop just like Gaylord Perry’s legendary spitball. She’d stare you down with that petrifying scowl, like Bob Gibson and Don Drysdale used to do in the sixties.
You see, Sister Sandy was an avid baseball fan and borrowed many the idiosyncrasies of all her favorite pitchers. She fidgeted and stalked around the podium at the front of the classroom and talked to herself, the same way Mark “The Bird” Fidrych used to act out on the mound.
During her windup, she turned her back to the class and briefly faced the blackboard, her bare, unshaven, vericous vein-riddled leg emerging from under her habit and hanging suspended in mid-air for a split-second. Then, suddenly she’d spin around and throw heat, just like Luis Tiant.
Sometimes, late in the afternoon when the shadows grew long on the walls and floor of the classroom, it was virtually impossible to pick up the flight of a pitched eraser, especially as it emerged at mach one from a background of black and white robes and flailing rosary. That’s when you kept your mouth shut and paid attention in Sister Sandy’s class, knowing full well that that was when she was at her most dangerous.
Sister Sandy took the best moves from all her baseball heroes -- she had Marichal’s high kick, Valenzuela’s eyes-to-the-sky, and even incorporated some of Satchel Paige’s tongue-in-cheek word of advice. And with Clemens’s fastball, Wilhelm’s knuckler, Spahn’s scroogie -- she even had a split-finger pitch -- Sister Sandy was a worthy opponent, a relentless competitor and a pleasure to watch.
She was so good at firing erasers, that most of the time you overlooked how very hard Sister Sandy was on the eyes. She was blessed with a great arm, and was a more than adequate history teacher, but she looked like Ernest Borgnine in a dress, and I’m being kind. It didn’t matter. To me, she was something really special, and I honestly believe that if she had been born a man, she would have made it all the way to the show, most likely as a middle reliever.
As you progressed at St. Basil’s, you got used to being bombarded by blackboard erasers, and it lost its effectiveness after awhile. A puff of chalk dust, some nervous laughter from your classmates, a moment of mild embarrassment, and it was over.
The nuns would quickly have to devise a more potent form of punishment if they ever hoped to break me. For about two weeks, I was actually convinced I had them on the ropes, but they were simply re-grouping quietly, behind the chapel, methodically re-assembling their troops secretly in the rectory while bringing in a couple of specialists from the Vatican.
Those crafty penguins were not fazed one bit, and had only just begun the process of breaking and muzzling me. Sister Sandy would soon seem as formidable and tough as a wrinkled, shrinking Mother Teresa, when compared to the ball breakers I’d be butting heads with at St. Basil’s in the days to come.
Eventually I found out there were many much more drastic forms of control within these nuns’ repertoires of discipline and pain, and naturally I was destined to be on the receiving end of all of them more than once.
I look back now and I realize I never even had a chance. After all, these holy warriors battled daily with the Ultimate Evil, The Big Bad One, Beelzebub, Satan Himself. Do you really think they felt even mildly threatened by a sixth grader whose entire arsenal consisted of the fake-fart-under-the-armpit gag, a few dirty limericks, an old routine of bad knock-knock jokes, and whose best comeback line was “I know you are but what am I?”
I was seriously outnumbered and overmatched, on the verge of a Holy War I could never win. I had a few more tricks up my sleeve, sure, but hey -- they had God on their side. Did I really think I had a chance?
Well, I made it out of St. Basil’s alive and the damage those erasers ultimately did to me is debatable. I heard many years later that Sister Sandy died in 1999, after living a good long life. I’m told she could still throw those erasers better than any nun who ever lived right up until the day she died, and you know what – I believe it.

The Lauryn Hill Meltdown!

A couple friends of mine are big Lauryn Hill fans. Personally, I'm not one of them. I mean, I can listen to it, but I would never buy one of her albums or go to one of her shows. I am very eclectic when it comes to my musical tastes -- I like rock, jazz, classical, some rap and even conch bands -- but Lauryn never made my list, for some reason. So, I'm not totally bummed out to hear that Hill is in the process of having a Mariah Carey/David Chapelle/Rush Limbaugh-type meltdown.

From what I'm reading (in both blogs and reviews of her most recent concerts here in the bay area) the woman is losing it. For instance, one night during this current tour, when Lauryn was preparing to waltz through the backstage area, everyone present was told they had to immediately vacate the premises. Those people who had to be backstage and couldn't leave (security, etc.) were told not to look at Lauryn and they had to line up facing the wall to avoid eye contact with this spoiled little diva. Like criminals being searched by the police, these professionals had to face a wall while this woman walked by. Who does she think she is, The Virgin Mary? Christ Herself? Mother Teresa? Those people (or entities) deserve that kind of respect. Hill does not. But, wait, there's more. During one of her recent shows in the bay area, the concert was scheduled to start at 8 pm and there was no opening band. Guess what time little Miz Lauryn decided to take the stage? Midnight! Then, she sounded terrible and all the reviews I read about the concert said that it was really awful. At one point, she even made her band stop a song and start over. After about 45 minutes of bad music, people almost crushed each other stampeding out of the place. I NEVER wish anything bad on anyone, absolutely not. But, let's put it this way -- I'm not shedding any tears when celebrities I could care less about meltdown. I always love to hear about Tom Cruise's sofa hopping, Anne Heche knocking on someone's door in Fresno and telling them she's being pursued by aliens, or Lindsay Lohan sticking her fingers down her throat. It's fun to talk about and there's so little fun stuff to talk about anymore.

5 Reasons Why Batman is the Best Super Hero

1.) Batman really doesn’t have any super powers and isn’t invincible. He’s a real person like you and me. Bullets don't bounce off his chest and he cannot fly. I mean, Superman can just about do anything, unless of course you have some kryptonite, which is about as easy to get as Paris Hilton’s phone number. (bad example)
2.) Batman has an intriguing dark side. “The Dark Knight” comics of recent years have brought out this side of Batman a little more. Having a mysterious, unknown personality makes him more interesting. Superman is about as interesting as a Dr. Phil marathon on TV.
3.) Batman fights the best villains. Superman has Lex Luthor. (lame), Spiderman has the Gremlin (isn’t that a car?) while Batman has a long list of legendary bad people to battle, like the Joker, the Penguin, the Cat woman, the Riddler, Mr. Freeze, the Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy, Two-Face, the Scarecrow and King Tut. Can anyone even tell me one of Wonder Woman’s or The Flash’s nemeses? I can’t!
4.) Batman is also a detective. Batman uses his brains more than any other super hero. He takes advantage of the latest technology and his top-notch sleuthing techniques to catch the bad guys, unlike Superman, who relies primarily on his brawn.
5.) Batman has the coolest outfit. Superman looks like he’s wearing Underoos. Wonder Woman looks like a 1970’s disco reject and the Green Lantern looks like a pirate from the Castro. Throw in his incredible utility belt; containing everything from a bat boomerang to white-out, and Batman wins the costume contest hands down.

New DC Super Hero Stamps in Summer 2007

Ten DC Comics super heroes will be saluted on “DC Comics Super Heroes” stamps next summer. Half of the pane of 20 will be portraits of the characters; the other half will show individual comic book covers devoted to their exploits. The characters include Aquaman, Batman, The Flash, Green Arrow, Green Lantern, Hawkman, Plastic Man, Supergirl, Superman and Wonder Woman.

I've always been partial to Batman myself. And I've always been a big fan of the late Will Eisner and his incredible comic book series, "The Spirit". Eisner died a while back. The man was a great writer, cartoonist and teacher and is considered by many to be the originator of the graphic novel. I got to meet Eisner and Jerry Robinson (who drew a lot of the first Batman comic books and is recognized as the creator of the greatest comic book villain of all time, "The Joker") in 1978. To hang out with these legends and talk comics was a big thrill!

Whatever happened to the old comic books? Today's books are all either bloody as hell (like "Sin City" which I think is way too violent and poorly written -- although I have to admit it's well drawn. I should also add here that the recent film was one of the most unwatchable pieces of garbage ever produced by human beings) or sci-fi. Whatever happened to real characters with real problems? Whatever happened to super heroes like the ones on the stamps, who had character and smarts and didn't slaughter everyone they saw? I want them back!

For a web site about Will Eisner, visit www.willeisner.com. For information about the "old school" Batman, the Caped Crusader's comics from the 40's, 50's and early 60's, see: www.goldenagebatman.com.

"Sister Sandy Koufax" -- a short story about life and baseball by Hymie Laredo [PART ONE]

Like many people, baseball has always been a big part of my life. The first memories I have about baseball include my first mitt, bound in rubber bands and soaked in saddle soap, stored under my bed to work in the leather; trying to catch those first thrown baseballs and dropping at least 20 before one miraculously fell into my glove; my first World Series (1968 -- Detroit beat St. Louis). Watching Bob Gibson scowl reminded me of our fourth grade physical education teacher, Mr. Cannon, who believed in jumping jacks and medicine balls and didn't like "smart alecs" like myself. I'll always fondly recall my very first Little League uniform a t-shirt that shrunk to half its size after the first washing and gradually got smaller with every subsequent trip through the laundry and a cap that was three sizes too large. I played Little League in my home town of Old Greenwich, Connecticut, and later when we moved to Southern California. I was a classic example of good glove, no bat, and was frustrated playing the game most of my life. I was an excellent fielder. I had a great arm and made quite a few spectacular catches. But, I was clueless at the plate. I would get up there and my legs would start shaking, and I'd either freeze and take three strikes or swing with little chance of hitting anything but air. I'm still ashamed to admit that the last year my father coached me in Little League (I think it must have been 1970) I failed to get even a single base hit all season. My nickname was changed forever that day -- from Steady Ed to Eddie Oh-fer.
In those years, living in Connecticut, we were obviously Yankee fans. No one I knew rooted for the Mets, except one strange little girl in my fourth grade home room. Being a Mets fan was like being a Jets fan. It just wasn't done.
But, much to everyone's surprise, the Mets won it all in 1969. We moved to the Los Angeles area that summer, and watched the Amazin's from NYC shock the Baltimore Orioles on our new color TV with a 16 inch screen, which at that time was considered enormous. The five-game dismantling of the mighty birds of the American League was fun to watch, although I still don't believe it happened. Baltimore took game one easily, beating Tom Seaver, the Mets' ace. Jerry Koosman shut down the big Baltimore bats in game two, and I thought to myself, well, it least it won't be a sweep. I never imagined that the rag-tag crew from Shea would win the next three games. Met pitchers Gary Gentry and a very young baby-faced Nolan Ryan combined for a 5-0 shutout in game three, Seaver pitched a complete game in contest number four, and Koosman went all the way in five, winning 5-3, after trailing 3-0 early in the game. Previously unknown guys with names like Swoboda, Agee, Al Weis, and Don Clendenon beat the dominators of the American League, handcuffing the greatest hitters of the time, household names and Hall-of-Famers like Frank Robinson, Boog Powell and Paul Blair. Brooks Robinson made the plays at third, the staff of Palmer, Cuellar and McNally pitched spectacularly all season, but the end result was that the Orioles lost to the better team during 1.5 weeks in October, 1969.
It was a classic example of the simple fact that the most talent doesn't always prevail. The Orioles tried too hard, pressed too much and gave the Mets a chance to walk through the door. When it was all over, I learned a valuable lesson. There is no such thing as a sure thing. The Jets with Broadway Joe would prove that again to me just three short months later, when they embarrassed another sports powerhouse of the period, the Baltimore Colts in the Super Bowl. I don't know if it was a full moon, or if mercury was in retrograde, but those have to be two of the biggest upsets in professional sports, both played by two teams from the same city, with Baltimore playing the heavy favorite in each, only to screw the pooch. Another fun fact is that the NY pro basketball Nets won the ABA that same year.
By late 1970, we were comfortable in our new West Coast lifestyles. We were now Los Angeles Dodger fans. But, like with the Yankees in 1968 and 1969, the Dodgers were still far away from getting anywhere near the Fall Classic. The transplanted Bums had performed well after moving from Ebetts Field to Chavez Ravine, winning the whole thing in 1959, 1963, and 1965, but hadn't done much since.
Baseball was fun for me to watch, even if I couldn't hit. Some of the kids I played with and against went on to become stars at the high school and college levels, but none of them made it to the big show. It's one of the toughest things an athlete can ever achieve. People don't realize how extremely difficult it really is to play in even one game at the MLB level.
Life in L.A. was good for a rambunctious 12-year old. But, things were about to change. A person who would radically change the way I thought about a lot of things was about to enter my life. She was a nun. A tough nun. And her name was Sister Sandy Koufax.
Little did I know that the you-know-what was poised to hit the fan.

Next: Part 2: Sister Stopper

Isn't this what they call a Pointer?

I met this beagle in Berkeley awhile ago. I noticed the cool markings on his back and snapped this photo. This pooch could always get a job as a traffic sign (Right Turn OK) or as a mascot for the Baltimore Ravens.

I Want a Monkey!

I want a monkey bad. I've never had one, but I bet they're a blast. Monkeys are like dogs, only smarter. I don't think you can legally have them in California, although it doesn't say anything about no monkeys in our lease. With 3 dogs already, I don't think Angelina would go for it! My friend had a chimp way back when, but I wouldn't want a chimp. All they do is play with themselves and fling poo. No, I want a spider monkey or something smaller and less obnoxious. Why did I post this useless information? Was it because I wanted to get the fact that I desire a monkey as a pet off my chest? Or was it because I found this cute picture of a monkey and I wanted to put it on my blog? I'll never tell!