You Dawgs

In October of 2003, The Golden Baseball League announced plans to start a new independent baseball league for the 2005 season in California and western Arizona. One of those teams would be based in San Diego, and Rickey Henderson would play for the team. Last night, the San Diego Surf Dawgs, with Rickey Henderson, played their inaugural game in their inaugural season against the Long Beach Armada. And I was there.

The Surf Dawgs play at a local college where Tony Gwynn coaches the San Diego State Aztecs. There they faced some opening night glitches. Long lines for merchandise were poorly handled and sales were lost to inability to take credit; the sound system was ill-equipped for the 4-man anthem; and in the first inning, concessions ran out of hot dogs. Having had one early, I can attest that no one missed anything. However, the venue had to its credit short lines for beer and bathroom, and vendors selling bags of kettle corn wore the sales price on printed T-shirts. Well done there.

The marketing department, however, fell down on the job when the opposing team's mascot, one already more colorful and attention-getting than our own, was allowed to outwit our hometeam Dawg, Southpaw, by distracting him from a base-running competition with a bone, allowing a child to win. The strategy is absolutely right -- the child should win -- but it should have been our mascot that helped him by distracting the other team's guy. To instill the proper team loyalty -- my mascot can kick your mascot loyalty -- it should have been our guy making theirs look foolish, not the other way around. Poor planning there. The Armada's mascot ruled in the stands, too, so much more visible than the Dawg that one wondered if our guy was even in the park.

The game, though, was fantastic. Rickey Henderson had the first catch and the first at bat for the Dawgs. He went 2-3 with a double, 2 walks, an RBI and a stolen base and was given a standing ovation by the sold-out crowd.


Rickey Henderson, third from right. Pre-game.

Surf Dawgs manager Terry Kennedy told the San Diego Union-Tribune that he thinks Henderson, 46, "wants to be the first one to hit a home run, cross home plate and collect his salary check, pension and social security all at the same time." Continuing to draw a professional paycheck delays Henderson's Hall of Fame eligibility, but the guy wants to play. And to help launch the new league. Well, if the crowd at the team's first game is any indication, he's done that.

All in all, it was a fun night out. And, at 33, I've finally met a mascot. Or two.

Obstetrics

Yesterday I received an e-mail from a first-time visitor to Germany. I'd joked earlier that the few words my visiting friend had used to explain the "labeling problem" were easy ones. For a Shakespearean actor such as Brian, there should be no trouble figuring out that "apotheke" meant "pharmacy." And "bananen" is obviously banana. Surely, I jibed, it must get harder than this. So yesterday's follow-up message, while also detailing the money exchange and shoe size conversions, included a list of completely unfamiliar words, among them spargel, gemuses, obst, and hauptbahnhof.

Being the smart-aleck that I am, I quickly shot off my guesses for each word. "Spargel" is what my boat does when I wash it. "Gemuses" are a herd of German elk. "Obst," I said, is the doctor who delivers your baby. And "Hauptbahnhof"? Obviously, that's the guy from Baywatch. After several more such definitions, I hit "send," remembering that Brian had suggested that my "smart" resided somewhere south of my "aleck."

Soon after sending my response, I looked up the meaning of each word. One, spargel, was an unfair test; I never use the English version of the word (to avoid spoiling the fun for those who are guessing now, I'll print the translation at the bottom of this post). But another caught me by surprise. Because, in a round-about way, I'd been right.

I'd joked that "obst" suggested a reproductive doctor. Short for obstetrician, the "obst" would be the doctor who deals with the care of a pregnant woman through pregnancy, childbirth, and recuperation. This, of course, is not what "obst" actually translates to; it translates to "fruit."

Fruit is the ripened ovary of a seed-bearing plant. Much like a baby is the ripened ovary of a seed-bearing woman. Pregnancy is the fruit of her efforts; the baby the fruit of her womb. "Obst" could easily be the root word of obstetrics.

And my aleck could have a future in etymology.


The translations:
Spargel: asparagus; Gemuses: vegetables; Obst: fruit; Hauptbahnhof: main station

Landingham

In San Diego I have access to a Digital Video Recorder (DVR). And with it, I've been recording re-runs of The West Wing.

I tend to work nights, so my deep-seated love for The West Wing was born out of daytime re-runs on Bravo, where they aren't played in order. Over time, I've managed to catch most of the first 4 seasons; but while there are some episodes I've seen countless times, there are some I still haven't seen at all. Some that I'm now trying to capture with the DVR. This week, I caught one I'd been looking for. The one that explains what happened to Mrs. Landingham.

Delores Landingham (Kathryn Joosten) was the President's secretary. She died and was replaced, a season later, by Debbie Fiderer (Lily Tomlin) but I never knew how she died. In the episode 18th and Potomac, I found out: a car crash.

I don't watch TV the way that other people do. "My brain works differently." The death of a character is, to an actor, the death of a job, so I always wonder. Was the actor ready to leave the show? Were the producers trying to get rid of an actor? Or were the scriptwriters sold on a story arc, regardless? I don't read People. I don't know the gossip. But I do know that Ms. Joosten still needed food on the table long after Mrs. Landingham died. Fortunately, in this case, Joosten has been working steadily, even while appearing on The West Wing. Most recently, I've seen her as Karen McCluskey, Lynette's crotchety neighbor on Desperate Housewives.

And while we're making the leap from Wisteria Lane to The White House (which is scary in and of itself), I should also mention that as the Senate Majority Leader's chief of staff Ann Stark, Lynette (Felicity Huffman) sabotaged The Leadership Breakfast. And Bree's husband, Rex Van De Kamp (Steven Culp), made numerous West Wing appearances as Speaker of the House Jeff Haffley.

Now, on Housewives, it seems that Rex has died. Of course, that may just be season finale hoopla. Or is it? So I wonder. Is Culp ready to leave the show? Are they trying to get rid of him? Are the scriptwriters sold on a story arc, regardless? I don't know. But at least I'm sure that Culp will have no trouble keeping food on the table for a while.

Whew. That's a load off my mind.

It's a Wet, Wet, Wet, Wet World

This weekend, I marked a few things off my San Diego "To Do" list. On Saturday, I ventured to Pt. Loma to visit the Cabrillo National Monument and the old lighthouse, which features a spiral staircase.




While in Pt. Loma, I also visited the area's tidepools and Rosencrans National Cemetary. I planned to end the day with an amphibious tour of San Diego, but returned downtown just in time for to figure out that I was in the wrong place to buy tickets for the day's final launch. The Sea And Land Adventure (SEAL) tour would wait a day. In the meantime, I enjoyed the view along Harbor Drive, took another look at the tall ship that had starred in Master and Commander (now at port in San Diego), and discovered behind it a Russian submarine that will be opening to public tours after Memorial Day.




On Sunday, determined to take the SEAL tour, I found the amphibious vehicle at Seaport Village.




The tour was a bit overpriced, but it was a joy to be on the water watching sea lions at play. Or, more accurately, at rest.




Sea World isn't far from Seaport Village, so at the end of my SEAL tour, I decided to take advantage of the Sea World membership I'd bought weeks earlier and catch the Shamu and dolphin shows again. This time, without my camera in front of my face. I had plenty of time to kill before Shamu's 7 pm appearance, so after watching the dolphins jump and play, I went to find the interaction area. I had surprising success attracting dolphins for petting before their scheduled feeding began, but one ornery dolphin soon tired of answering my becon without reward and made it a point to splash me for wasting his time. At the bottom of the hour, I made a point out of buying fish to reward him. Petting a dolphin was one thing. But handling a dead fish to feed him? Quite another. Well... there's a first time for everything.




I'd gotten a spray or two from the staged dolphin show, but my splashy friend here set the tone for the rest of the day. I would be SOAKED.

With an hour to go before Shamu would take center stage, I opted to kill time on Shipwreck Rapids, a ride akin to the Grizzly River family of entertainments at California Adventure and Nashville's now-lost Opryland theme parks.




For me, this one was almost perfect. All rides in this family are too short, but this one allowed for a lot of drenching without any terrifying drops. Woo-hoo!

Then it was time for Shamu. Last time I went to Sea World, I sat front and center in the Soak Zone but exited the stadium dry. Not this time. It's a good thing I had no plans to pull out the camera, because ol' Shammy was determined to drench the heck out of me. He recognized me. He had a score to settle. He got me. Three times in quick succession with an impressive swat of his tail. Don't get into a splash fight with a killer whale. You'll lose.

Shamu did such a wonderful job targeting me, in fact, that in one of the clear moments between splashes, as I was wiping salt water from my eyes, I saw my melted self larger than life on the JumboTron, wet and cold and laughing like crazy for all to see. A great time.

I rushed home to a hot shower and warm, dry clothes, made dinner, and noticed a bit of a sunburn. I'll pay for my weekend adventures today. But I wouldn't trade them.

For Jake

How much do you know about dolphins? Do you know that they like to munch on BUCKETS of fresh fish? And what about killer whales? Well, they seem to enjoy BUCKETS of warm water. Aaahhhh. Sea World is just full of BUCKETS.

For everyone else: my brother threw down a blog writing gauntlet on May 5th and today proclaimed the challenge unmet after my mother and I missed our May 20th deadlines. We were to write something -- anything -- about buckets. Consider this challenge finished and the next better met.

The Autobrat Riots

Lynching. Looting. Riots. Coming soon to "San Diego's Best" apartment community. Why? Someone has allowed their car alarm to go unchecked for far too long. The natives are restless. Literally.

A white minivan parked beneath my window is the culprit. I've spent some time this afternoon watching it sit there, motionless but not silent. Nothing seems to trigger its alarm. No passers-by, no wayward rabbit, no gusty wind. The van is not in danger. It seems to be screaming only for attention. It'll get plenty of it soon. From a tow truck or a baseball bat, I'm sure.

The alarm has a definite cycle. Thirty seconds isn't unbearable. It's the length of an average commercial. But length is not the problem. Frequency is. After thirty seconds, the alarm stops. And after two seconds' silence, it begins again. Thirty seconds on, two seconds off. Thirty on, two off. Thirty. Two. On. Off. That is unbearable. So I wonder where the owner is. And why they haven't fixed this.

If this were a child screaming and crying in public, I'd expect to hear an adult threaten "stop it, or I'll give you something to cry about." Toward a child, it's an empty threat. But toward a hunk of metal? Perhaps not.

So I hope the owner of the white minivan comes to his senses soon -- because adjusting his alarm will be cheaper than replacing his windshield. And the longer it takes him to do the math, the more I'm rooting for the baseball bat.

Blog Tipping

In the last week, I've spent quite a lot of time on airplanes. I've traveled from San Diego to Nashville, from Nashville to Detroit, and from Detroit back to San Diego with stops in LA, Dallas, and Chicago. If you're going to spend that much time sitting in one place, you'd best have your entertainments ready. In my case, that means having on hand The New York Times Crossword (or ten) and a good book.

On my journeys east and north, I read Blink, the current bestseller by Malcolm Gladwell. For the journey home, I bought Gladwell's earlier work Tipping Point. I was restless on the flight home -- in this case, San Diego -- and read only seventy pages before my eyes lost focus, but those seventy pages lead to some interesting thought.

This morning, freshly returned to San Diego, I checked my e-mail and discovered that a good friend whose writing I once edited for weekly publication has started a blog. I am no longer the middleman between Chris' writing and his venue; blogging has afforded him a place for his voice. Which is a good thing. And a Tipping Point thing.

Blogs are getting a lot of attention lately for their number and variety in a relatively short time span. Had you asked Chris to predict that I'd have a blog this early in the phenomenon, he'd have denied the possibility. I am, as he put it, not the fastest to catch up with technology. In Nashville, I still have a dial-up internet connection. But in San Diego, with better access and more free time, I caught the blog wave. And an interesting thing happened. Within days my whole family was blogging. And now Chris is too.

What is interesting about this, and what brings me back to Tipping Point, is that someone Chris has never met is, at heart, responsible for his entrance into the blogosphere: my friend Anne-Geri. Without Anne-Geri there would be no Chris, because it was Anne-Geri's blog that inspired mine, mine that inspired my mother's, and my mother's that inspired Chris'.

Chapter Two of Tipping Point is titled "The Law of the Few" and it outlines three types of people who are critical to social epidemics of all kinds: connectors, mavens, and salesmen. Anne-Geri is a connector. A teacher, a gardener, a charity-walker, a mission-goer, an actress, a writer, an internet hound, a believer, and a friend, Anne-Geri has her foot in many different worlds and has that "special gift for bringing the world together."

There is a lot of book left to read and I'm sure that I'll recognize others along the way. But for now, I'm remembering fondly a show performed in Nashville last October. Because Blithe Spirit introduced me to Anne-Geri, and without that introduction, I would not daily hear the voices of my mother, brother, and friend through their blogs. They would not have one. Because, without Anne-G, I would not have had one.

Who's Your Agent?

I have an agent. Or, more accurately, I have an agency -- one that "launched the careers of Ashley Judd and Reese Witherspoon." I signed on two years ago, and have rarely heard from them since.

Part of an actor's job is to hound his agency for work until he's proven to be a money-maker for them, but I never did. I allowed myself to sink into obscurity in the actor files because I'd gone in looking for voiceover work, not acting gigs. Still, they did send me out to work. Once. Last year, they handed me a basketball mask sent me downtown to pass out goodies promoting the NBA Finals on ABC. It wasn't a career move, but it was fun and easy money. And there's nothing like orange rubber headgear to make a girl feel special.

They also sent me out to an audition. Once. The Shop At Home network was looking for a Plus Size model, and my agency pulled ME out of the depths of their files. Now, I could happily shave ten to twenty pounds, but I don't shop in the Plus sizes, thank you very much! I was obviously not what Shop At Home was looking for, and it was as obvious that my agency didn't know that. I didn't bother to correct them. Instead, I chalked it up to experience. I'd been hoping for voice work anyway. I forgot about them. And wouldn't you know... they called today.

There is an audition this afternoon in Nashville. Something to do with home furnishings. I didn't get the full scoop; I can't be there. I'm in San Diego, planning to fly back to Nashville tomorrow. How's that for timing?

My stay in Tennessee will be a short one en route to Michigan for my uncle's memorial this weekend. Then I'll return to Califoria to continue rehearsals for my current show.

My current show. You'd think, at least, I'd have mentioned THAT to my agent. "Sorry, I'm unavailable; I'm doing a show in San Diego." But no, I said I couldn't make it today because "I'm in California." Somebody slap me.

'Til Tuesday,

Kel

Listen to Your Mac Friends...

Not long after I came to San Diego, I purchased a software program for my mother's computer. In Nashville, I have a home studio for audio recording, but with nothing of the sort in California, I bought a little upgrade for Windows called Microsoft Plus! For basic applications, it was an exciting addition. It had an easy interface and made the online capture of one of my archived radio reviews a piece of cake. I was quite taken with it... until I tried to add my voiceover demo to a website I'm working on.

I am an Earthlink subscriber. I didn't choose Earthlink -- I became a subscriber when my local ISP was bought out -- but I love Earthlink. It may be the only product I've ever been consistently happy with. And when I discovered a fully-equipped downloadable mailbox ready to accommodate my extended stay three-thousand miles away from my home computer, my love was sealed. But this isn't about my love for my ISP. It's about the webspace it provides with my account.

You see, for months I've been trying to add a sound file to my webspace. My voiceover demo. It's do-able, but only if the file is in .wav, mp3, or other supportable format. It's not. It was burned from my home computer and coded for Windows Media Player -- a .wma file. Which is apparently not supportable. And this is the source of my new frustration with Microsoft Plus!

When you create a sound file with Microsoft Plus! you are creating a Windows Media Player file. Extention wma. This should be irrelevant, because one of the selling points of Microsoft Plus! is the built-in audio converter that'll create mp3s of your old audio files. Great stuff! Except... it can't convert wma files. It does't recognize wma files. Which is a nuisance, since this program CREATES wma files. Burn it or play it back, but don't expect to use it. Great.

Adding frustration, Windows Media Player 10 is itself an unstable program. At least, it is on my computer. Again, it's good stuff... as long as you keep the program open. Close it, and you'll have to download it again. A real pain in the patookus. The download center at microsoft.com was getting at least 10 hits a day from me while I was trying to sort this out. Instead of solving the problem, I've given up. You won't be hearing my demo on a website any time soon.

I'll admit to having a bit of computer savvy. I have dabbled. I have tinkered. I have confused HTML codes. But a real computer nerd could solve these problems. And a MAC user wouldn't have them.

Jasmin

I drive a company car. It's not my company car -- I don't work for the company -- it's one of two leased to accommodate my parents. But in the last three months I've come to think of it as my car. And that's not a good thing. I'm territorial.

Last month, I was involved in an accident in my father's company car -- the second one -- while driving it home from the airport after my father had gone. When he is not required in San Diego, the company reclaims my father's car, but while arrangements were being made to repair his, it was mine that the company called home. While tooling around in my father's car, I had no problem with that; but when mine was returned to me, the predatory instinct kicked in: someone's been steering in my chair!

What I noticed first and foremost was the smell. I am very sensitive to smells, and this was a strong one. Perfumey. Not at all acceptable. I surmised that it must have been a woman that had borrowed the car, and after I found a forgotten bit of concealer, it was confirmed. It had been a woman. And she liked her perfume.

On day one, I simply noted the offending odor, but by day two I was getting annoyed that it didn't seem to be fading. I rolled down the windows in an attempt to air the place out, but to no avail. By day three, I was disgusted. Did this woman pour the stuff on? I couldn't stand it. It was not only offending my nose but was also disguising a rather lovely new car smell. How rude!

She'd left a bit of tell-tale garbage for me, too, so by the fourth day I was concocting images of the woman who must have driven my car. They weren't flattering, these images of the water-guzzling harlot who splashed herself with come-hither juice and painted her pores in my cockpit. Shameless hussy, keep your eyes on the road!

By the end of the week, I'd collected some tell-tale garbage of my own and went about removing it. That's when I saw it -- a piece of cellophane stuck between the console and the driver's seat. More garbage. Lovely. Except... it wasn't garbage. There was something inside the barely opened wrapper... shaped suspiciously like a tree. A pine tree. A cardboard pine tree. You've got the image, but instead of the give-away pine scent distributed by the green version, this one was yellow and coated in "Jasmin." I removed it post-haste and left it to freshen the mail room.

Given a day to air out, the car smells much better now. And I've revised my opinion of the woman who borrowed it. I'm sure she's very nice. But why put an air freshener in a new car? Maybe she's a smoker....

Have You Called Jenny Yet?

My good friend Kirstie Alley lost 30 pounds!

Okay... I don't actually know Kirstie Alley, but she's in my living room chatting with me about personal issues more often than any other person on the planet, so I figure I've got a case. Or not. But she did lose 30 pounds. What interests me about her weight loss success isn't that she's done it -- though, cheers! -- it's the marketing of it.

Two pounds per week is considered a healthy rate of weight loss, so if Kirstie has lost 30 pounds and we assume she's doing it healthily, we've also got to assume that she's been on the plan for 15 weeks. That would take us back to January, which sounds about right; but it seems like only yesterday that she was telling me that together we could get really, really skinny. And that's my point. She's been on the plan for almost 4 months, but who would guess that? For the first month or so before Kirstie announced "I lost 15," we were being encouraged to START the program with her while she was already kicking serious butt. And for the next month, while we were celebrating her 15 pound loss, she was losing another 15. It feels as if, in no time at all, the weight just melted away. And isn't that the way you want your weight loss program to look if you're soliciting buyers? Brilliant.

I've got to give the folks at Jenny Craig some credit, because my first reaction to Kirstie's 30-pound announcement was that it wasn't possible. That she hadn't had the time since we first saw her. I had to do the math to realize that JC wasn't pulling a fast one. Now, instead of suspecting they'd held back the first commercial to shorten the marketing span, I'm impressed that they didn't.

And I've got to give Kirstie some credit, too, for sticking with it for 4 months. (We'll forget here that the camera thrust in her face might add incentive).

I didn't join Jenny Craig when Kirstie asked me to. In fact, I'm not planning to join, ever. But Kirstie is cool with that. She's doing a good job on her own. That's what makes her such a good friend -- I can ignore her advice and she'll still tell me all about her success. Way to go, Kirstie! You're doing great.

Now pass me a doughnut.

Chapter Two

My uncle Pat passed away this Saturday; his memorial is scheduled for May 15th in Michigan. He was not lucid enough in his last days to accept my final phone call, but I spoke to my aunt instead and have memories of Pat from a healthier time. Honestly, I prefer it that way.

I am still in San Diego, which is a source of some confusion for those who expected me to return to Nashville after The Odd Couple completed its run early last month. I chose to stay a few extra weeks before going home to catch some attractions I'd previously overlooked and, on a lark, I auditioned for another show. I was cast. I have accepted a role in the British sex farce Move Over Mrs. Markham at the Poway Performing Arts Company, further extending my visit.

The show is set to open June 24th -- one day after my Nashville roommate begins a months-long acting contract on a cruise ship. With half the rent headed toward international waters, a number of my Nashville ducks need to be corralled; and with plans to make the memorial trip to Michigan, I'm plotting a rather travel-heavy week for mid-May. I will be meeting with my new cast and director for the first time this evening. As I am not the lead in this production, I am hoping that I'll be graciously excused from the three or four rehearsals I'd have to miss to make the traveling possible. In an eight-week rehearsal schedule, I can't imagine that'd be a problem. But you never know.

And so here begins another chapter in my San Diego experience. Or, with my determination to miss a week of rehearsals, here it ends. We shall see.