Fred's Book Club: Root Fan or Die.

Welcome to another episode of Fred's Book Club, also called the Humpback Writers because it falls on Wednesday. And if you think that joke is a disaster, then you haven't seen the real disasters that have been seen by...

Joe Queenan, who has written for pretty much everybody from TV Guide to National Review to the New York Times, published True Believers: The Tragic Inner Life of Sports Fans as an ode to long-suffering sports fans -- a painful, awful ode. As with all of Queenan's writing, there's a lot of hilarity in this book, despite his perpetual agony of being a fan of the teams from his native Philadelphia all his life. And if you know about the Phillies (two championships in 136 years) and the Eagles (no championships between 1960 and 2018) and the 76ers (no championships since 1983) you know how he feels.

True Believers is a deep dive into some of the characteristics of the die-hard fan -- the willingness to defend and fight for and pay large amounts of cash to his beloved teams; the superstitions; the birth of fandom from childhood up; and the stupidity. If you've ever loved a team beyond all reason, ever quit following the team and kept coming back, ever said "Wait till next year" when there isn't a spark of hope in you that next year will be better, this book is for you. Even if you've finally given up and walked away, he has a chapter about that.

Don't think that Queenan calls all dedicated fans unrealistic or dumb. To the contrary. He writes that "it would be remiss to overlook the Manichaean nature of the true fan's relationship to his team. By this I mean that, while one is morally obligated to root, root, root for the home team, it is also perfectly acceptable to maintain a simultaneous hatred of the franchise and to curse the moment it first saw the light of day. I personally believe the Eagles and the Phillies have each taken about five years off my life through their vaudevillian antics down through the decades. As a friend once put it, the difference between the Phillies and the Third Reich is that after the Second World War, a few of the Nazis apologized for their crimes against humanity, while the boys in the colorful red pinstripes have remained obstreperously mute on the subject."

And don't think this is a book just for Philadelphia fans. In one chapter he discusses the woes of Jets fans, for example, describing the time "the Jets' ancient, mysterious, and very possibly insane owner Leon Hess went out and hired Richie Kotite to be his new head coach. In a remark so cryptic that cultural anthropologists will still be analyzing it centuries from now, Hess said, 'I want to win now.' Kotite, who had just lost his last seven games with the Eagles, thereupon guided the Jets to their worst season in history, winning just three games, and the next season, one. In Kotite's defense, it doesn't seem fair that a genuinely nice man who had survived brain surgery and four years in Philadelphia should then be asked to coach the Jets."

As I noted above, Queenan spends some pages looking into the origin of the suffering pastime of sports fandom, usually in childhood.

Fans' support must be based on one of two criteria. Either you grew up in a specific locality and inherited a congenital municipal connection to the team, or you grew up somewhere else but rooted for your father's teams. (In certain rare instances an exception could be made for supporting a team simply because your uncle Sal did. But only if he was your real uncle Sal and not some mythical figure you dreamed up to make your perfidy seem more palatable to your naive, gullible friends.)

After all, "it was morally unacceptable, an outrage against the laws of God and man, to root for teams with which these emotional or geographic ties did not exist. For starters, it weakened our national moral character by promulgating the notion that it was permissible to arbitrarily switch allegiances."

Without question, my favorite part of the book was Queenan's description of the turtle.

In a dark corner of my kitchen, right next to the radio, sits a hideous enamel turtle that has not budged from this position since October 1993. During that memorable year, or so I have come to believe, the turtle's uncanny telekinetic powers contributed in some way to the Philadelphia Phillies winning the National League Pennant. 

This is the kind of sports superstition everyone can admire. I know for a fact that when I was a youth, the Mets' Game 6 rally in 1986 was caused by me sitting in my house, on my street, on the edge of my bed, with my legs and arms wrapped around my old desk chair, watching on a blinkered old black-and-white TV. If I had gotten up during the rest of the inning, we would have lost. I was as much a key to the win as Knight, Mookie, and Aguilera. You're welcome, Mets fans.

And you know why the Beloved Mets have not won the World Series since? My family moved the next year.

Tequila hombre Fred.

So today is Cinco de Mayo, the celebration of the anniversary of Mexico's victory over France in 1862. I think that's not a bad cause for celebration. After all, France helped us in the Revolution but has been a pain in our boutoques ever since. 

As John J. Miller and Mark Molesky pointed out in their book, Our Oldest Enemy: A History of America's Disastrous Relationship with France, the French were among our enemies even in World War II. "By rejecting the advice of Woodrow Wilson and insisting on crippling and humiliating reparations, France fatally undermined the fledgling German democracy and planted many of the seeds of the Second World War -- a conflict for which the French required another American rescue. Before that liberation could occur, however, American troops landing in North Africa in 1942 encountered stiff resistance from the soldiers of Vichy France. The GIs literally had to fight their way through the French to get to the Nazis."

So yay, Mexico.

My bandoliers are on back order.

When St. Patrick's Day falls, Americans think of Ireland, Irish food, and alcohol, and not in that order. When Cinco de Mayo comes around, we think about Mexico, Mexican food, and alcohol, and definitely not in that order. It's the American way. We haven't started getting drunk over Latvian Independence Day yet (November 18), but give it time.

Well, we can't get blasted on Corona this year, I guess, since the Chinese corona death virus has caused the parent company to suspend Corona brewing for now. There's always Dos Equis, Tecate, and others, and does it really matter? Tacos go down with everything.

Of course, you can cut to the chase and drink tequila. And since we're all quarantined, you can guzzle it from the bottle in your own home. Olé! If anyone gets mad because of your poor behavior, point out loudly that A) You're home, sho yer not drinkin an drivin, and B) Your only crime ish cultural appropriation, sho go to the college and get a divershity cop, Karen, and 3) Shuddup already.

Like many of us, I first encountered tequila with the lime and salt paraphernalia because someone I was drinking with decided it was time we got manly and took the express train to Hammerville. And it worked! Several shots and more beer later, I had not only arrived, I had shot past the station into Woozytown and was deposited at last in Bedspin City. "Teh Kill Ya" had a reputation for being the one drink to have when you wanted to nuke the evening, but it really was unfair. We just never did shots of gin or vodka or whiskey at the bar, any one of which would have been as deadly.

Years later I was on a press trip, a freebie granted by work in exchange for writing a 1,000-word travel article. The magazine would get invites for these all the time, and the chief would reward someone who did good work with a chance for a free-ish vacation for one. I was the lucky choice. A bunch of reporters, some of us drinking like idiots, were catered to for several days by the local travel industry. I remember one night we were treated to a dinner cruise on a local river, and on a whim I ordered a tequila on the rocks. The interns working for the travel hosts were muy impressed that someone would sip tequila; they'd only ever seen people horking it down to get their drink on fast. I'd never seen anyone drink tequila on the rocks either, actually. And it made a nice drink. But it's the only time I ever drank it that way.

So that's my story of tequila, into which you can fold any mezcal references you want because they are included as they all tasted the same to me. I never ate the worm. I've been told the worm's hallucinogenic property was kind of a myth anyway, but your experience may have been different.

Fred!: The Musical.

As we know, major boffo Broadway and movie musicals have been written about famous people. People like Founding Father Al Hamilton (Hamilton), stripper Gypsy Rose Lee (Gypsy), gangster Legs Diamond (Legs Diamond), dictatorial wife Eva Perron (Evita), and guy who played Legs, Peter Allen (The Boy from Oz). Well, I got to thinking that my life has all the drama, pathos, comedy, and intrigue one could want to be a terrific musical. Can't you just see it?

Sure you can!

Now, you might quibble that all those other people are dead, and I am not. A mere technicality. Also, all these people are famous, and I am not. Aha! I reply. I will be famous when this musical opens and takes the Great White Way by storm!

I don't have a script yet, I confess. Nor do I have any songs. Nor can I choreograph, nor dance, nor do I even like dancing. But by God, I have song titles, titles that tell the tale of woe and triumph that means Fred! The Musical. Here's how it will look in the Playbill:

Act I

"Born in a Typewriter Case"
"Drive Ev'ry Expressway"
"There's No Business Like Publishing"
"Red Pencils in the Sunset"
"Another Hundred People (Just Got Onto My Bus)"
"Ol' Man Deadline"
"Suddenly Stupid"

 Act II

"Fugue for Ink-Stained Wretches"
"A Boy and His Blog"
"Gonna Wash That Hair Right Off of My Head"
"We Have Enough Clowns (Send No More)"
"The Improbable Dream"
"Make 'Em Smile Wryly and Say ISWYDT"
"Don't Cry for Me, Staten Island"

 If you have any suggestions for other showstoppers, feel free to leave them in comments. My people will call your people, when I get people.

The plan is to open it in two weeks, when all the other musicals are still closed from the Chinese death virus. We'll be the only show in town! And if The Man tries to close us down? Publicity! Call me, Broadway personages! Let's put on a show!

Where there's smoke, there's laundry.

Walking the dog around the side of the house one chilly, humid morning, I saw great billows of white smoke coming from the back. For a split second the primal alarm went off in my head -- FIRE! -- but by the time the second ended I realized that most fires don't smell like Snuggle.

Yes, and I had been the one who put the laundry in the dryer just before going outside.

Depending on the weather, the scent of dryer exhaust can really permeate the air, visibly or not. I do not complain about this. Everyone wants the clothes to smell nice. No one is washing the clothes in coal tar. So I'll be walking the dog and he's sniffing the grass and I'm like "Oh, the Johnsons are up early and doing today" or "The Smiths use Snuggle too."

Bears in the neighborhood.

Does it introduce a man-made perfume into nature's glory? Yes. Is that a problem? No. The dryer vent effusion is fleeting. And nature mostly smells like nothin', although sometimes it's very nice, and sometimes very bad.

Sherlock Holmes wrote a monograph on tobacco ash called Upon the Distinction Between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos. Since true tobacco connoisseurs are thin on the ground these days, I think a modern-day Holmes might instead write Upon the Distinction Between the Scents of the Various Laundry Products, focusing on their color, scents, effectiveness, and whatnot. He, or perhaps a chemical scientist for a soap company, might be passing down my block and announce, "Aha! Clearly the scent of Lirio detergent, tempered with a dash of Ensueño. We may conclude that the residents are not merely Latino, but likely Mexican!" Or, "Hinklemeyer claims to have been shopping for laundry soap at the Mega World at the day of the crime, but his clothes smell distinctly of Kroger's house brand." Or, "You detect that, Watson? A mix of Downy Unstopables with Snuggle Scent Booster. Fresh scent and Blue Iris Bliss, unless I miss my guess. The occupants clearly are using extraordinary means to cover odors in their laundry. Come to the dryer vent, Watson; the game's afoot!"

Mostly I find it amusing when a family's laundry announces itself as far as the sidewalk. And a little relieved. In this quarantine era some people are getting a punchy, and might be wearing the same sweats for a couple of weeks. Let's keep our focus, people!

Basket o' booze!

New York supermarkets are not allowed to sell hard liquor. So imagine my surprise to see this near the checkout line:

"Oh, how nice! They put Mommy's Little Helper there as an impulse buy. Get out of the cart, Jason; Mommy needs to load up on vodka."

But don't let the "Family Size" label fool you; no, these plastic vodka bottles are actually filled with hand sanitizer. Several outlets have been reporting that distillers have switched gears during the Chinese Death Virus crisis and are making "Top-Shelf Hand Sanitizer," as the Daily Beast put it.  Good Spirits Distilling of Olathe, Kansas, is responsible for this lovely clutch of bottles, to help clean our hands in this time of viral trial. It cost ten bucks, but I think that's fair; a 10-oz. bottle of hand sanitizer is close to three bucks, and I think these are liter bottles, or 33.8 oz.

I applaud the GSD guys and others for it, but there are three small problems with using their product. One, there's no hand pump, standard for hand sanitizers -- but of course you could use it to refill your empty Purell bottle. Two, drunks could mistake it for booze and actually drink it, which could get them loaded and also dead. Three, and the reason I didn't buy one, is that the buyer bringing this home could have a spouse accuse them of going over the top. "A few weeks in the house with the family and you're taking up guzzling hard likker, is that it?" No one ever gives you a problem for bringing home a bottle of Germ-X.

So you know what that means: Sneak your booze into the house in Germ-X bottles. No! It means if you want hand sanitizer, and you want to support the distillers who have altered operations with a great deal of trouble, and you don't live with someone who will freak out with what looks like a bottle of cheap vodka, then buy one of these kinds of products. It may make your hands smell like a cocktail lounge, but admit it -- you've smelled worse.

For all those who work, or want to.

Just last year I dedicated my May 1 blog post to St. Joseph, patron saint of all who work. May 1 is the day we celebrate the feast of St. Joseph the Worker, a much better celebration than May Day, which is enjoyed in dictatorial nations like the one that recently gave us all the deadly virus that has caused some to be horribly overworked and many more to be completely jobless.

It's funny that St. Joseph is so important, since he doesn't get a word in edgewise in the Bible. Really, no dialogue recorded. But that means when he is called on to do something, he does it without comment or question, unlike almost every other figure in the Bible, including Mary at the Annunciation and Jesus Himself in His agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Also, something that only occurred to me this year: When Jesus was brought as a baby to the temple for dedication, St. Simeon declares to Mary that “Behold, this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be contradicted (and you yourself a sword will pierce) so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” He says nothing about Joseph, which had to make Joseph think, And where will I be when all this is going on? And I'm sure he knew what it meant.

To those so inclined, it would be a good day to ask St. Joseph to intercede for all workers affected by this horrible COVID-19 virus -- those who have been stricken with it, those who have died, those who have worked long hours to help the sick, those who have seen their jobs or businesses evaporate or trickle down to nothing, those who have no idea what the future will bring and see only bleak horizons. Individually the value of work is crucial to our mental and even spiritual well-being, not to mention our survival and that of our families. Together, we desperately need to get back to work to lift our nations and our civilization back from the brink of economic ruin. Most of us are trying to do whatever we are asked in this quarantine, but the price is getting steeper by the day.

As I've said before, St. Joseph, the Protector of the Holy Family, really comes through for us, at least in my experience, although maybe not in the ways we expect (or even want). He's my Confirmation saint, because I love his stoicism in the face of peril and struggle -- unlike me -- and because he was a hard worker -- and at heart I'm lazy and need someone to kick my behind.

I hope we can get past this soon and get back to our jobs. As the saying goes, pray for potatoes but pick up the shovel.

Cartoon history in the making.

April 30, 1921: Cartoon history is made when Herbert Jounce starts Jounce Air Anvil Delivery Service in
major metropolitan areas.