Monthly Archives: June 2006

We’re home

We left Cincinnati this morning, but the 850-ish mile, 15-hour drive is now over and our home is still here and we had a good time.

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A Cubbie in the lion’s den

We’re just outside Louisville, Kentucky, tonight. Neither of us had ever been to Kentucky before.

There are more trees here south of the Ohio River. The roads curve a bit more. We’re in Eastern Daylight Time again. Drivers have a bit more attitude. It’s a nice wayspot.

We left Saint Louis this morning, but yesterday morning, we fled Branson at a leisurely pace.

Yesterday afternoon, we visited the Gateway Arch, the federal government’s shot at a Missouri tourist trap. It was a bit disappointing to wait in line for almost an hour to take a four minute capsule ride to peer out tiny windows. Below, the animatronic Native Americans in the Museum of Westward Expansion talked on and on whether anyone listened or not. And the employees in Jefferson’s gift shop had the surliest attitude of any workers I’d ever met.

And then, yesterday evening, we went to the new Busch Stadium. If U.S. Cellular Field (where the evil White Sox play) is hell with nice curtains, then Busch Stadium is a sort of beautiful ante-chamber of evil full of nice-seeming people and a small handful of people who didn’t get (or couldn’t read) the “be nice to tourists until we can eat their souls” memo. The park is nice, with comfortable seats and good hot dogs and loyal, enthusiastic fans.

But those fans have a nasty, brutish side. “CUBS SUCK!” one yelled at me as I headed down to get ice cream. A few innings later another said, “Hey, I could have been a Cubbie, except that I knew both my parents.” I turned to the person next to me: “Picking on the Cubs is like Dick Cheney hunting; there’s just no sport in it.”

But the game was very good, and I got my revenge. The Indians beat the Cardinals 3-1. Yay! And, Wickman, even though you’re dead to me, you did well last night . . . I guess. . . .

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John Brown, Terrorist

“Considering his Harper’s Ferry raid, was John Brown a terrorist?”

Last Saturday Lisa and I visited the Adair cabin and John Brown museum in Osawatomie, Kansas. There isn’t a lot to the two-room cabin and the shelter that surrounds it, but we enjoyed the diversion. In one room, the great-great-great-granddaughter of the Adairs recounted stories about John Brown and her progenitors while in period dress. In the other room was the middle-aged amateur horistorian with extensive knowledge of weaponry and trinkets that every museum seems obliged to have. I asked him my question about John Brown.

I debated whether to ask, since it could be considered inflamatory by people who clearly love him, but it seemed timely to find out how people feel about a man who fomented revolution based on a narrow interpretation of religious scripture, who sought to be a martyr to his socio-political cause, and who had no problem killing civilians for a cause.

I personally think that his actions in Kansas — where he engaged in what we euphemistically call “frontier violence” — could go either way. In 1855, Kansas had two territorial governments that were in active war with each other. Neither side could defends its partisans, and the federal government was reluctant to intervene at the risk of producing schism within the union. Brown saw himself as avenging wrongs against free-staters, blacks, and the laws of God. Some actions were defensive, but he also descended upon and killed five pro-slavery settlers, perpetuating a cycle of violence. The “outlaw” Jesse james did much the same thing for the pro-slavery side.

Seizing the federal arsenal in Harpers Ferry, [West] Virginia, falls into that category that we call “political violence.” These actors are variously called freedom fighters, terrorists, liberators, and mujahedin. Brown endeavored to create a slave uprising, cause the Virginia government to fall, and change the legal landscape through direct, violent action. In our time, this attack has an ideological and emotional equivalent in Timothy McVeigh‘s attack on the Oklahoma City federal building.

“A terrorist? Well, there was so much violence in Kansas at the time, that I don’t think you can single him out as a terrorist. He was a warrior, who employed violence in defending his cause.”

It seems that if we perceive the cause as just, we’re very willing to excuse actions that we criticize in others.

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Branson in pictures


Mini-golf, part 1

The Titanic theatre

The Wax Museum

Baldknobbers Jamboree

Big Hat for Lisa

A Bad Lie

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What is this place?

I don’t even know where to start. This place is just so overwhelmingly shitty — what’s the word? — bizarre. Yet, we’re having a great time. We left Winfield, Kansas, where we stayed with Lisa’s auntie and uncle and visited her ailing grandparents. We made a pact to never get old . . . but I’m getting off the road to Branson.

After getting on I-44 at the Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma border we were bombarded with signs for all sorts of kitsch: caverns and cavalcades and country stores. Now, friends, I have relatives who love Branson, so I’m not getting down on the folks who visit this Vegas meets Niagara Falls meets the Black Hills meets the Wisconsin Dells meets the Grand Ole Opry. But the place! The place is overwhelming. The main drag through town has every kind of touristy store you can imagine, dozens of dinner theatres with tons of people (almost none we’ve heard of, except Yakov Smirnoff and a Hee-Haw dude), mini-golf, Ripley’s Believe It or Not, hotels, motels, jamborees, discount ticket vendors, carnival-type rides, restaurants, go-karts, and (yes) even a Wal-Mart. It goes on and on.

But we left the car at the hotel and walked about a mile down the road and stopped by a few stores, including Ozarkland. Imagine, if you can, all of those stores in San Francisco’s Chinatown that are stuffed with cheap Asian exports transported to a rather scenic part of the U.S. and filled to the brim with slightly-less-cheap Americana: magnets, bald eagle T-shirts, crafts, air rifles, Precious Moments (™)-type doodads, fudge, taffy, John Deere/Coca-Cola/etc. memorobilia, Black Hills gold, and so on.

We also stopped in a place selling beautiful fretted instruments: banjos, guitars, and lots of dulcimers. But the guy behind the counter made the mistake of talking to us right as we walked through the door and all the dulcimers were behind the counter and I panicked and we fled without finding out how much these quirky instruments that I could never play cost.

So on we went to mini-golf that Lisa wrote about already. I won. Ha Ha Ha!

We’ve barely scratched the surface of Branson, but we’re leaving tomorrow and are sort of relieved. It’s over-stimulating and a different vein than we’re used to mining.

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Sun screen rules! (And so do obscure country and western performers)

[ed. note: Fabulous guest writer Lisa brings you another posting.]

Hidee-ho neighboreenos! Here we are in Branson, Missouri. Wild, wacky, weird Branson, Missouri. It’s hard to describe the experience that is Branson. I once heard it described as the hillbilly Vegas which may be pretty close in the end. I’d feel worse about saying that except they have t-shirts shops every ten feet that loudly proclaim Branson (and the Ozarks) as a place for hillbillies (also pirates… you figure that one out). We’re under the target age demographic, I think. There are large showplaces all along route 76 which runs through the center of Branson. There are, however, signs for these shows every ten feet (I kid you not) all the way from Springfield, thiry miles away. It’s like the Wall Drug signs only really every few feet rather than every hundred miles. As for the performers, we’ve decided that this is the place where all the Hee-Haw performers you thought were dead have gone to. They’ve also built a replica of the Titanic but, oddly, only half of the boat.

We amused ourselves today by walking up and down the main strip here and playing mini-golf. One thing I’ve (re)discovered is that I’m really, really bad at mini-golf. Jeff beat me both rounds but the second round he beat me by 18 strokes. And here’s why … because when his ball hit mine, it knocked my ball away from the hole but when my ball hit his, it knocked his into the hole. INTO THE DANG HOLE. How does that happen? He hits his over a fence into the rocks and then sinks the next shot. I hit the ball under the dinosaur and my next shot ends up further under the dinosaur (we’ve got it on film to prove it).

Now for the random thoughts portion of our broadcast. We’re heading to St. Louis tomorrow for more baseball! They’ve got a new ballpark that we’re excited to see. Some bugs, when they hit the windshield, become molecularly bonded to the glass. Bad sunburns will blister. People who get off the duck boat tours and insist on blowing the quacky noise-maker in your face are seriously annoying.

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To the open road…

The Dwight D. Eisenhower National System of Interstate and Defense Highways turns 50 this year. My parents’ generation grew up as it was being built — my father did road construction for a bit, among many other things, and has many stories about it. When I grew up in Iowa, the interstates were always there, but most of our driving was on uncrowded two-lane roads. My grandparents — whose world after WWII was only about three counties big — didn’t like the big roads, and all of our family vacations seemed to consciously avoid the freeways. When we moved to Wyoming, the Interstates were like any other mostly empty road, just slightly wider. In the Bay State, the turnpike and multi-lane highways hold the commonwealth together and even decide which of towns people know.

I like the two-lane highways. Of course, we need the big roads for commerce and long-distance travel, but I would rather travel cross-country without them. Driving between Wyoming and Iowa in my school days, I grew tired of bland, easy I-80 and sought out other routes for nothing but novelty. Nebraska is one thing, but who has all that vacation time to spend on state and county roads?

On the first part of this trip we traveled mainly on Eisenhower’s war-time baby. I-90 and later I-94 took us from Massachusetts all the way to Minneapolis without any tough choices. I thought when we turned toward Iowa in Madison, Wisconsin, we would be seeing a lot more of the 2-lane highways I remembered. But Iowa seems to have recognized the potential of transportation to get new products to market and build a new service-oriented economy. (Nothing new for a state that used first rivers and later railroads to build a global agricultural empire.) Many of the US highway are being divided and widened in five- to ten-mile stretches. Speed limits are up. Driving is easy. But you won’t see the historic basilica in Dyersville or the spiral staircase in Traer or . . . well, the list goes on and on.

But many of our relatives live in “the middle of nowhere,” which is now partly defined as distant from an interstate if not other towns. And we want to get off the big roads. So we headed north on US-169 to Humboldt, Iowa, and found a nice little farm toy store. A quick detour off our drive west on US-56 across eastern Kansas brought us to the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve. On US-71 (a schizophrenic highway) we passed small towns and a gorilla rising out of the corn. Before following I-35 south on our second pass at Kansas, we ventured down US-169 (same road, different state) to Ossawatomie’s John Brown Museum.

A new phase of our trip (less family more baseball) just began and will mix healthy amounts of quaint 2-lane roads together with booming 4-lane US highways and modern interstates. I’m excited!

P.S. – If you want to see Pixar/Disney’s view on the interstate highway (and class), see the very enjoyable new film Cars.

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Theories and hypotheses

I have been developing a lot of theories and questions about American life (or subsets of it) on this trip:

  • Americans — myself included — don’t really understand class or regional differences. And for an unknown reason we are inclined to see differences up the social scale as snobbery and down the scale as stupidity. Perhaps there is a “culture war” of resentment (if not values) that is class-based. (Do you hear me, Democrats? We’re never going to win again until we get another Bubba or good ole boy like Clinton, who really liked everybody.)
  • Hotels charge a premium for exclusivity of guests. The difference between $60/night and $100/night rooms in Missouri is not in the room or services but in the expectation that people who can spend $40 extra for a place to stay are more “like you.”

But perhaps the most speculative is that Midwesterners generally believe that everyone knows (or should know) the same things. Everyone knows where Knute Peterson’s old barn was before it burned down in ’86 or where the train tracks go. It doesn’t matter if you haven’t been in Des Moines in almost ten years, you should know that 2nd Avenue now goes all the way through past Oralabor Road or how to get to the airport now that the road is rebuilt. Never driven through K.C. before? That’s okay, everyone knows the downtown interchanges by heart — one almost might say genetically. (At least in the Bay State we give you road signs on major thoroughfares when something really important is about to happen.) Everyone knows the major regional news stories of the last five years.

(This might help explain why I’ve heard several people talk about “Mexicans” in ways that really set me on edge. Hispanics are — based on what I’ve heard — another monolithic group, who the Midwesterners see like themselves but completely foreign. “If only they would assimilate” then they could be part of the collective consciousness.)

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The Pokey

Today we visited my brother in prison.

If I were going to write a memoir — tentatively entitled A Million Little Miles — I would fill it with all sorts of (probably) inappropriate details about how my family set me up to be the obsessive, mildly neurotic, fun-loving person I am today but that it’s really all my own doing. This is just the sort of thing that people love to write these days (think Falling Leaves, All Saints, A Million Little Pieces, all those porn star memoirs, etc.). But my family is mostly all living, and I like them. So, like Humbert Humbert, I will keep the details out of the public sphere. (Don’t ask.)

So let’s talk about prison. I have found visiting prisons to be unnervingly normal experiences. Regardless of who they are visiting, all manner of people travel across states, commonwealths, and the country to visit relatives and friends in the pokey. When you visit, inmates seem like normal people you might meet on the street or in a place of work or at a family reunion or at Thanksgiving dinner.

(This, in fact, is my main gripe with how we present people “accused” of crimes, much less convicts. We criminalize and condemn people rather than actions, and as a result we really don’t believe offenders can be redeemed. Dont get me wrong, convicts have hurt others and need to repay society and their victims; but we do let them out, and we need to work them back into society. Okay, the public service announcement is over now.)

The places in prisons where insiders and outsiders meet are not unhappy. Low-key and sometimes melancholy, sure, but it’s just a microcosm of the American condition. There are (rather young) people meeting their great-grandbabies, and everbody — even prison guards — love babies. Spouses embrace and talk around small tables. Children play board or card games with their fathers. (This really helps with awkward pauses.) As far as I can tell Shawshank Redemption is a great story; but in Iowa, civility still binds the free and unfree (perhaps it’s just a veneer, but I don’t think so).

But prison does seem rather uneventful, which is probably the most terrible part about it — spending years of your life not being free to do things or go places or have one’s own space. And there’s really not a lot to say about this particular visit or the trip there through the gently rolling farmlands of northwest Missouri and southwest Iowa. So, if you haven’t had the chance to visit someone in the house of correction, here’s a primer.

(1) You have to be invited. After returning the form sent by the inmate, you can visit on specific days for limited amounts of time.

(2) Don’t bring much with you. Basically just a form of ID. No phones. No papers. No wallets. Certainly no weapons or drugs. You can bring change for vending machines, and experienced visitors carry their change in plastic zippy bags; it makes the pat-down and metal detector procedure simpler. Everything else needs to be locked up somewhere.

(3) Sign in with the nice person behind the bulletproof glass who controls the door locks. You may have to go through several pairs of locked gates and doors. Depending on the level of security, you may need an escort.

(4) Follow all directions, and you shouldn’t have any problems from the Man.

(5) To avoid frustration, don’t expect amazing transformations or ask really difficult questions.

(6) Learn the rules to rummy and pick a reasonable target . . . say 500 for three people to play two hours. Learn how to shuffle very well-worn cards.

(7) Remind your inmate to call relatives, because no one can phone them.

(8) Do the whole process in reverse: follow directions, sign out, get things out of the locker, leave.

(9) Wonder what’s going to happen at the indeterminate time when your loved one is released.

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Silos and Smokestacks?

Silos and Smokestacks National Heritage Area? WTF?

Sites in this 37-county region of
northeastern Iowa illustrate the
transformation that took place as
mechanization paved the way for
a distinctly American system of
industrialized agriculture.

Tractor design and manufacture,
mechanized farming, corn-hog
production, dairying, beef cattle
feeding, and meat packing
continue to characterize the
region. The unique cultural
histories of family farming and
agribusiness are equally well

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Life Lessons with Lisa

Lesson numer one … babies don’t make sense. Among my relatives with whom we visited in Kansas were my two second cousins, aged three months and eight months. The three-month-old … no problem. She let me hold her and made happy baby noises until she got hungry … at which point I promptly handed her off to her mother ’cause I sure couldn’t give her what she wanted. The eight-month-old, on the other hand, was having nothing to do with us. He’d crawl up to me and at one point even gummed my legs but under no circumstances was I able to pick him up. But he was cute so I told him that girls really don’t like boys who drool. He agreed to work on that.

Lesson number two … sun screen (ok mom, I can see you shaking your head and sighing at me) . I’m 31 years and two days old and still I’m not smart enough to cover my bases. We travelled today to Kansas City, MO, to watch the Kansas City Royals (worst team in baseball) play the Pittsburgh Pirates (worst team in the National League). It was raining quite hard when we got there so we wore our raincoats and took our umbrellas and waited through the half-hour game delay. Unfortunately, as has been demonstrated so many times on scales both large and small, if you think you’ve got nature figured out, nature will kick your ass. So the clouds started clearing, the temperature went up about 15 degrees, and then the sun came out and we baked. Fortunately, my face and arms have been somewhat exposed to the sun so got only a little pinker today. Unfortunately, my formerly pasty knees are approximately the same shade as boiled lobster. Ah well, even given the pain I am in right now, it was a good day for bad baseball. It’s is a sad thing when one team (the Pirates) scored seven times and still lost by eight runs and when the fans are booing the winning home team, even though all but one player scored. On a few other notes, Kaufman stadium is ridiculously hard to find despite being right off of two major highways. They managed to ruin funnel cakes (which is really hard given that it is fried dough and powdered sugar) and no one sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

Lesson number three … indoor voices. We went to dinner tonight at a Mexican restaurant. Unfortunately, a large party was also there. Double-plus-unfortunately, they were loud, high-pitched, and fueled by alcohol. I suspect that the world would be a better place if I were more tolerant of others (also if I were a less fussy eater, but that’s a whole different problem) but then I wouldn’t be the happy-go-lucky jaded cynic that you all know and love. Seriously, though, do we all need to share when one young lady shows off her tatoos and navel ring? I THINK NOT!

Enough with the morality tales. Some random thoughts … We’re having a grand time on our trip. We hit the westernmost point of our trip yesterday in Lindsborg, KS. We’ve also gone more than 3000 miles as of this morning and we still have nine days. We have to go to Abilene, KS, on our next trip for in what other city can you visit the Eisenhower presidential library, the fashion museum, the museum of independent telephony, AND the greyhound hall of fame? The grass on the tallgrass prarie doesn’t really get tall until August. The sausage races in Milwaukee are brilliant. My name is Lisa Mather and I’m addicted to ice cream.

Enough for me tonight. Hope all are well. We’ll see you soon!

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Still in the Midwest

We’re still here in the Midwest. Time expands here and is full of nostalgia and goes on and on. But despite this, our trip is not quite half over, and we’re still having a good time.

On the 14th we arrived at our friends’ house in the Minneapolis ‘hood. We definitely need to build ourselves a deck so that we can sit on it and grill bratwurst sausages and enjoy evenings. Karmi and Matt work in the arena and convention center business and know a thing or two about how they work. Random fact: It takes about 1000 people-hours to clean a stadium after a baseball game.

Before the evening game on the 15th we took in the sights of the Twin Cities — okay, we didn’t go into Saint Paul. Over breakfast I finished my “secret project.” Next up, the Mall of America. We had been there before, but who can miss this pantheon of American commerce? Lisa loves Calder mobiles, so we took a tour of the excellent Minneapolis Art Institute to see the Surreal Calder. (It was, in fact, surreal, especially in the contexts of disparate objects and automatic writing.) Last stop before the game, the Mill City Museum. I never knew that Minneapolis was a flour milling mecca. Nor did I know how flour was milled. And I didn’t know that much about wheat for that matter. The quirky museum in a burned out flour mill was a lot of fun. More thoughts on farming (or agribusiness or yeomanry or whatever) to come.

Then the Red Sox lost. Boo.

We had to backtrack to make the schedule work. It was nice to have an unapologetically good experience in this brewing town. The time in 1993 involved sleeping in the bus station, and the one in 2000 had me talking (via the blood sugar) to a postcard of Sitting Bull, and then in 2004 I was merely bored.

We didn’t intend to spend so much time there, but we couldn’t find the enormous volcano along I-94 in the Wisconsin Dells that would have been our mini-golf adventure. So we went to the zoo on Saturday morning instead. The Milwaukee County Zoo is a bit like the city itself: working class and kind of run down and not as nice as other cities’ offerings and quite possibly dull unless you work at having fun . . . and we did. Man, was it hot. Not India hot, but hot nonetheless. So the aminals were all taking it easy. So it says something about Midwesterners that several people said the critters were “lazy.” I’ve missed the upper-Midwest’s condescension and quickness to judge.

The Brewers beat the Indians Sunday night — I’ve already written about that — and the wrong sausage won the race around the outfield, but the park was great under the cool evening skies.

We’ve been in Iowa for a couple of days now. We left Milwaukee in a torrential downpour, which had stopped by the time we recrossed the Mississippi River into Dubuque. It’s a cute town; we will have to stop in sometime (perhaps on a Mississippi River-themed trip). A short bit down the road, we looked at all sorts of 1/16, 1/32, and 1/64 scale farm toys in Dyersville’s National Farm Toy Museum. Lisa and I had different experiences — I liked it more than she did — but we thought many of the same things. First, who collects five different versions of the same toy just because the boxes are different? And there’s a ton bushel of ego in this musem, far more than I had ever expected from Iowa.

We had a nice time with my mom, grandmother, aunt, uncle, and cousins yesterday. And this morning we headed to Grinnell to see my prints in the All-Alumni Art Show. It was gratifying to see my work in a gallery, even way in the back. We toured the many new parts of campus (more differences of opinion on the new dorms). Grinnell the town is even smaller than we remebered it. Over lunch we wondered how much different our time there would have been if we’d come from the East instead of the West. Tonight we spent a couple of hours with my father. How did I become who I am? I have no idea. Tomorrow, on to see another grandmother and thence to Kansas.

Stay tuned. . .

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The Midwest in Pictures, Part 1

The baseball trip ’06 so far. Click for bigger pictures.

Jacob’s Field, Cleveland (from I-90) Poisonous frogs, Chicago
Anaconda and child, Chicago Frozen Margaritas? U.S. Cellular Field, Chicago
View from the seats, U.S. Cellular Field Mr. Sweep, denied
Chicago, from the Sears Tower Skydeck Millennium Park, Chicago
Sue, the T-Rex, Chicago Homo sapiens (not life size)
Triceratops, Chicago Wrigley Field, Chicago
The final disgrace Minneapolis Institute of Art
Mill City Museum (of flour milling), Minneapolis Gold Medal Flour, Minneapolis
Karmi and the Bisquick Karmi and the sundae
View from our seats, Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, Minneapolis In the Metrodome
“Lazy” animals, Milwaukee Jeff and the baby gorilla, Milwaukee
View from Miller Park, Milwaukee View from our seats, Milwaukee
At the National Farm Toy Museum, Dyersville, Iowa Too many farm toys…
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Bob Wickman . . .

Bob Wickman, you’re dead to me.

True, you made the final two outs last week after the previous two relievers gave up five runs, but you did give up one of your own (if my scorecard is correct).

But tonight you couldn’t find the strike zone and the two Brewers you walked scored on Geoff Jenkins’s long single. Boo!

Poor Jake Westbrook. He’s only given up three runs over 16 innings (2 earned) but has only squeaked out one win. Leave the kid in next time!

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Baseball update

The trouble with rooting against a team — such as we did Sunday against the White Sox — is that fate may call in its markers. Tuesday we went to Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs . . . my team . . . my lovable band of Northside ne’er-do-wells. When I was in seventh grade, it was the first major league ballpark I visited; the Cubs lost to the Astros. The next year, my stepfather took the family to a game; I don’t remember the Cubs winning. In 2002, on our way to a wedding in Madison, Wisconsin, Lisa and I spent the afternoon watching the Cubbies lose to the Pirates. The Pirates! On Tuesday evening we had seats not far behind home plate to watch the Cubs play the Astros.

We have no love or antipathy for the Houston Astros, but we love the Cubs. But the Cubs are not easy to love. Emmylou Harris, who sings “beautiful, sad songs” once told the Times that she doesn’t have enough soul to be a Cubs fan. So it wasn’t surprising that Andy Pettitte, Lisa’s favorite pitcher, only allowed one run over seven innings in an eventual 9-2 win. But I definitely have to tip my hat to Chris Burke who had five runs on four hits in five plate appearances! C’est la vie.

Our bad luck for the home team unfortunately did not continue last night when the Red Sox lost the rubber game against the Minnesota Twins 5-3. Many times we had seen the Sox draw huge fans in their road games, and finally we got to be part of a loud chant of “Let’s go Red Sox” to the annoyance of the Twins fans around us. The game was quite well pitched by both sides, and we all held out hope until the final out.

The Twins play in the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome — emphasis on “dome.” Domes usually aren’t good for baseball. They’re too big, with too many seats for a typical baseball draw. They have bad geometry, since they’re made for football. If the seats aren’t full of rowdy fans, they have a wicked echo. The worst baseball stadium (thankfully no longer in use) was Montréal’s Stade Olympique, which had all the charm of a Soviet-era apartment block. We watched a game there in 2002, four rows behind home plate. There were maybe 4,000 people there with 500 scouts filling in the upper deck. To our left were pro scouts with radar guns and stopwatches and World Series rings. But I digress . . . The Metrodome isn’t a great place for baseball, but it isn’t a bad place to watch a game either. The fans love their team, including Jason Mauer, a local kid batting over .370. Our friend Karmi (not a baseball fan) almost enjoyed herself. Funny things happen in a dome.

Tomorrow, another game. This time in Milwaukee.

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