Archive for A Picture and the Amount of Words It’s Worth

This Is an Ice Cream Sandwich Festooned with Tiny Jesus Montero Heads

In the dual interests of news cycle observance and amateurish, hot dog-fingered use of photo editing software, I present to you — without pride or any sense of agency — an image of an ice cream sandwich festooned with tiny Jesus Montero heads …

Delicious concession item

This has been what it has been.

An Island Where a Baseball-Like Sport is Played

On a small volcanic island, about 200 miles off the coast of somewhere or other, two teams played a game. Essentially, that game was baseball. But with elevated base paths. After he crosses the fourth base, some 40 feet above home plate, the runner would leap and grab onto a rope suspended between wooden pillars, and slide down, out over the ocean, and at the end of the rope, the player would leap into a rubber ring target.

The game we see in progress is between two teams called FanGraphs and NotGraphs. This is purely a coincidence and not related to the popular baseball-related Web sites with similar names. It’s the top of the 9th. FanGraphs are batting, and have already scored one run this inning, tying the game at 2-2. They have a runner on 3rd, and two outs.


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Cleef Van Lee

Last week, it doesn’t matter when or how many hours before midday, I was drinking. In a bar where the mesero brought me a menu with several parts, including a laminated photograph of the establishment’s dog with text telling patrons that while the dog would dearly love some of your food, please don’t give him any. The venue for my drinking had a logo with a cowboy hat on it. Then it came to me: that is what I can do for my NotGraphs post!


Why Is This Mets Prospect So Emotional?


Vicente Lupo, the Mets prospect pictured in the right part of this picture, is exhibiting considerable emotion. Is it because:

  1. He realized only after waiting in line at the DMV that he’d neglected to bring either his checkbook or the requisite amount of cash to renew his license; or
  2. His parents just related, in unnecessarily graphic detail, the circumstances leading to his conception; or
  3. He accidentally read a James Joyce novel; or
  4. His hands, which are transplants from a deceased murderer, are attempting to strangle him; or
  5. His hands, which are transplants from a deceased murderer, smell terrible?

Note, of course, that there’s no correct answer. Indeed, there’s no answer at all. All human endeavor continues to be an exercise in futility.

Credit to handsome entrepreneur Jeffrey Paternostro for bringing this image to the author’s attention.

Codpieces and Wetsuits: A Look at MLB’s Newest Uniforms


After Eden and beyond Hedonism II, people are supposed to wear their laundry. Generally speaking, clothing-optional is not an option. What is an option, at least if you aren’t Prisoner #30976, is the kind of clothing with which you adorn your form, be it a rhinestone caftan or a CSI: Miami nightshirt, with David Caruso’s sunglasses featured prominently in the area of the sternum.

With regard to baseball, perhaps no figure has celebrated this vestiary freedom with greater panache than former White Sox owner Bill Veeck. Indeed, 38 years ago last Friday, it was Veeck who perpetrated either a) the greatest sartorial misdeed in the annals of modern sports or b) the finest display of stylistic self-rule in the history of all history. On that afternoon in Chicago, in the first game of doubleheader at Comiskey Park, the White Sox took the field in uniforms that gave them the distinct appearance of misbehaving English schoolboys.

Now, in honor of that historic day, Major League Baseball is introducing 10 new uniforms, each an heir to the liberties that the Sox so bravely modeled. It is expected that each team will wear at least one of the uniforms during every homestand in September, and then again at Halloween.


The uniform: a flag-colored Speedo of the type that Mark Spitz wore in the 1972 Summer Olympics, matched with a Molly Hatchet concert T-shirt (Fredericksburg Fairgrounds, May 30, 1983) and a Nehru jacket made of heavy merino tweed. The hat is a traditional Tam o’ Shanter stained with day-old haggis.
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The Curse of The Chicago Cubs


Click to view in a different size. More specifically: bigger.

Terrible Photos of Ballparks from the Interstate: Volume II

At the end of last week, the author introduced not merely to the readers of this site, but also to citizens of the entire world, a new genre of artistic expression — namely, terrible photos of ballparks from the interstate.

To say that enthusiasm has abounded with regard to these poorly conceived images would be to repeat a lie that I told my parents just a few hours ago in response to their suggestion that my life is little more than a collection of poor decisions, one after the other, not unlike soldiers on the front lines marching to their certain, respective deaths.

Whatever the case, it does appear as though more than zero other people had already been participating in this practice of hastily photographing ballparks while in transit — even without recognizing the possible implications of that practice to art history. What follows is the work of one such reader, Ms. Rachel Monroe. Coliseum Coliseum is located in Oakland, California, and serves as home to the Oakland Athletics. Here’s a terrible photo of it from (what is presumably) the interstate the nearby BART station, BART itself often being referred to as “an interstate on rails”:

Monroe Oakland

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Terrible Photos of Ballparks from the Interstate: Volume I

Today, the author and his wife completed the first leg of a two-day journey in a U-Haul truck from the north of Michigan to an undisclosed location in New Hampshire that will serve as our new home.

Generating weblog content whilst driving a 17-foot truck presents some challenges. For all their virtues, wives are decidedly intolerant of husbands who attempt to perform internet work from within the confines of a driver’s seat. Fortunately, certain ballclubs have done everyone the total solid of constructing ballparks close enough to Interstate 90 so that absurd men with limited ambitions — like the present author, for example — can parlay that into writing of no consequence.

With that in mind, I present the following — which is to say, probably all the ballparks you can see from the stretch of I-90 between Toledo and Buffalo.

All Pro Freight Stadium
All Pro Freight Stadium is located in Avon, Ohio, and serves as home to the Lake Erie Crushers of the independent Frontier League. Here’s a terrible photo of it from the interstate:

Lake Erie

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Spam Baseball Cards

I took images from a selection of spam emails and made baseball cards for them:

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Knowing Bo


“Yes, sweetheart,” you answer, glancing up from FanGraphs.

“Daddy, what was 1990 like?”

You study her for a bit, searching her eyes for sarcasm. Is she old enough to have developed sarcasm by now? You’ve forgotten your Piaget, or at least the first chapter of Piaget your father-in-law gave you during your wife’s pregnancy. There was a timeline in there, a schedule for everything: vomiting, crawling, speaking, tying shoes, sarcasm, refusing to sit next to you in movie theaters. She seems sincere, looking up at you with those big brown eyes and that milk mustache. But she’s gotten good at being sincere, at looking earnest when she has to. You wish you knew how she did it, not because you want her to stop, but because you wish you could learn. You’ve raised her too well, and someday she’ll see what a fraud you are.

You sip your coffee, cold, and fold down the cover of your laptop. How could you explain? 1990 was Saturday morning soccer games on cold fall days, orange wedges and shin guards and swollen knees. It was walking home from the bus unsupervised, tiptoeing on curbs and avoiding cracks in the pavement. It was summer afternoons watching television shows you didn’t like because there were only ten channels, Dialing for Dollars, a nation’s temporary obsession with non-alcoholic beer, of Hypercolor shirts and Wayne’s World and Vanilla Ice, and unilateral American world power. It was the inability to look up answers to questions on the Internet, and a time when a list of pop culture references wasn’t a substitute for humor.

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