I’d like to compile a portfolio of the e-mails I send out on a daily basis. From the infamous “Letters to No-One” series that was a staple of my Livejournal, to the odd (I prefer the term eccentric, personally) press requests I made as a college newspaper staff-writer, to the random one-offs I send the [fine] folks who fill my inbox with press releases about up-and-coming (more like up-and-going…NOWHERE) bands I might want to consider featuring on this website. They all hold a special place in my loins.
This morning I applied for a job in Chicago–which Ilya took as an insult to his master plan for me to move to LA and write a sitcom. When I attempted to assure him that I could write a genius sitcom, he informed me that often times retards think they’re geniuses. Oh, that Ilya!
Someone from the Union Voice here in New Jersey called to ask me to write a 300-word profile on the golf range. This is what I typed as we sat on the phone, me saying “uh huh” repeatedly while he told me what’s good and what’s bad to write about. The best part is, I finished and looked down to see it was exactly three hundred words! Think they’ll publish this?:
It’s the bottom of the ninth inning. There are two outs, but with the bases loaded, there’s still a chance for a late inning, come-from-behind victory. With your batting helmet hanging low over your eyes, your study the pitcher’s arm as he palms a baseball hidden deep in the webbing of his glove. Do the muscles in his arm flex from pre-fastball tension? Is he gouging his fingertips into the seams in preparation of throwing a forkball? You attempt to subtly choke your hands up on your bat. All you need is to serve a ball into the outfield to drive home a run.
The pitcher squints, focusing on the signs he’s receiving from his catcher. He shakes off once—no, twice, then nods his head. Fastball. He thinks he can blow you away with his fastball. You dig your cleats into the dirt and lock your arms into place. You have the pitcher’s timing down—now it’s just a matter of catching his release point and getting the good part of the bat on the ball.
He turns and begins his wind-up. You start to count in your head. One…two…the ball is released and you watch it sail towards you, seams spinning like a top, laterally. Must be a two-seam fastball. It’s going to sail inside. Bring your arms in closer to your body to—no, wait it’s sailing too far inside. Better try to get out of the way…this thing is tailing fast!
WHACK! Right on the back of your hand, the fastball strikes you, shattering your wrist-bones into several pieces. After multiple surgeries and a grueling rehabilitation process, you can finally say you know what it’s like to have experienced the unique—dare we say quirky—batting cages at Crescent Golf Range in Vauxhall.
