MichaelLortz.com/JordiScrubbings.com

I have been watching a lot of baseball and going to a lot of games, so here is a (not-so random) thought about baseball:

Back in the 70s, 80s, and even early 90s, many major league hitters subscribed to the hitting philosophies of hitting coaches Walt Hriniak and Charlie Lau. These coaches espoused a more contact driven, line drive approach. Their style was unique, and you could easily point out the hitters who followed it.* Players who subscribed to their theories included two Hall of Famers (George Brett and Wade Boggs), one future Hall of Famer (Frank Thomas), one all-star caliber player (Robin Ventura), and several other solid major leaguers such as former Boston catcher Rich Gedman.

(That was something unique to Lau and Hriniak. There aren’t too many other coaches whose students are easily distinguishable. For example, Rudy Jamarillo of the Texas Rangers is the premier batting coach in today’s game, but how many batters can I identify as Jamarillo followers? None.)

With such a famous line of Lau/Hriniak disciples, you would think their style would carry on past their respective retirements. Yet the line stops there. As far as I know there no longer any subscribers to Hriniak and Lau’s theories currently in the majors. No hitters, no coaches, nothing.

Maybe the hitting philosophies of Lau and Hriniak died with the emergence of the steroid era. Hitting line drives became passe when hitters were more concerned with trying to out-homer their peers. If hitting with an uppercut would equate to millions more in the next contract, who can blame players for shunning a mantra of line drives and contact?

Yet now with the steroid era hopefully behind us, is it possible that we could see a return to the Hriniak/Lau style of hitting? Currently Lau’s son, Charlie Lau Jr., runs a hitting school in Fort Lauderdale. Maybe he is the future of major league hitting.

June 29, 2009

There is a lady looking for Bigfoot in the Tampa area. I might just join her.
http://www.tampabay.com/news/bizarre/article1013908.ece

June 27, 2009

June 25, 2009

Finished The Power Elite. An absolute must-read social commentary book about power in America. Written in 1956 and still shockingly accurate today.
http://www.amazon.com/Power-Elite-C-Wright-Mills/dp/0195133544

• Dakota LewtonI was at Coors field when the Rays killed the Rockies couple weeks ago. What a fun night that was : June 25, 2009 at 9:05pm

 

Alexis Norton likes this.

• hey ther micheal long time no see.

June 20, 2009

 June 19, 2009

Working a 14 hour day sucks. That’s 840 minutes. Even counting to 840 sucks.

• George Lortz Y’all can’t be working too hard if you had time to stop and do the math. June 20, 2009 at 5:58am

June 15, 2009

June 13, 2009

• Loren Gaitan Its obviously the end of the world! June 13, 2009 at 10:04pm

June 11, 2009

• George Lortz hey. measure your receiver. i hope it’s 2″. i can use russel’s hitch and ball if it is. June 11, 2009 at 7:00am

Going to a Rays game watching party at St. Pete beach. Should be fun.
http://www.tradewindsresort.com/Aview.asp?ID=1223

June 6, 2009

Clean apartment or go for a bike ride, go to the beach, or go anywhere with cold beer and good food? Hmm… I think the apartment can wait.

• Robert Levings yeah, it will be there when you get back so it can definitely wait June 7, 2009 at 12:13am
• Barbara Yates Farley I’m sure your mother would tell you to clean your room LOL June 7, 2009 at 1:15am
• Matt Ber Beer trumps cleaning everyday. June 7, 2009 at 5:49pm

Although I have never lived there, I’ve always had an affinity for Rhode Island. For some reason, I picture Rhode Island as the most underdog of all the states, constantly fighting for its survival amongst states that would like nothing more than to annex it into their territory. Although I might be wrong, I imagine Rhode Island as a remnant of state-creating policies of way-back; that if we were to re-create the states and re-draw the lines, Rhode Island would cease to exist.

Many moons ago, back in my early days of journalistic integrity, I wrote a piece for the FSU newspaper advocating independence for Rhode Island. I wrote about a plan to conquer Rhode Island and lead its inhabitants to a life free of tyranny and without the shackles of oppression.

In my article, entitled “Operation C.O.R.I.: Conquerors of Rhode Island”, one of my biggest points on why the people of the state would join my efforts and cooperate with my revolution was that “it is neither a road nor an island. The inhabitants have to call themselves “Islanders” and they don’t even live on an island.” I of course blamed The Man for this deception.

So it was with great joy that I read my idea to change the state’s name, which I at most considered a far-fetched fantasy, had grown closer to reality. Last Thursday, the Rhode Island House of Representative voted 70-3 to let residents decide whether or not to change the official name of the state. This is fantastic news. Finally, the people are being given an opportunity to fix a centuries-old problem of misidentity.

CORRECTION: Upon actually reading the article, it says the proposed referendum actually only amends the last part of the official title of the state, the mention of “Providence Plantations”. The referendum would make the official title the “State of Rhode Island”.

Looks like The Man will still have his way with the people of Rhode Island.

One day, I will rescue you, people of Rhode Island. One day, I will come before you and chant “You’re not a road! You’re not an island! You’re not sheep! Stand Defiant!”. Then we will march the streets together to chants of “Hey Providence! We are Anti-Dominance!” Then you will be known as “Land Formerly Known as Rhode Island”.

It will be a glorious day indeed.

(Originally posted on ScalpEm.com.)

If you haven’t heard the news yet, former Florida State guard Toney Douglas was recently selected in the NBA Draft by the New York Knicks*.

(* Technically he was drafted by the LA Lakers, but the Knicks immediately bought the rights to the pick.)

I am admittedly biased, as I have been a Knicks fan since the early days of Patrick Ewing. And of course there is my undying admiration for Charlie Ward. Anyway, here is a pic of Douglas and fellow draft pick Jordan Hill with their new jerseys.

Normally, I’m hesitant to see basketball players wear 23, as comparisons to the game’s greats (Michael Jordan and LeBron James) are inevitable, but Douglas’s case it looks good.

As the newest athletes in New York, Douglas and Hill were invited to Citi Field to a New York Mets game.

In case you missed it, I wrote a post a few months ago on why Toney “Ghostface” Douglas should do well on the Knicks.

Best of luck to Toney Douglas.

P.S. For those who keep track of such things, a bit of FSU-related NBA draft trivia from Seminoles.com:

“Douglas’s selection gives Florida State its fifth NBA Draft pick in the last six years. All-ACC guard Tim Pickett was a second round selection of the New Orleans Hornets in 2004, guard Von Wafer was a second round selection of the Los Angeles Lakers in 2005, forward Alexander Johnson was the second round selection of the Indianapolis Pacers in 2006 and All-American forward Al Thornton was the first round pick of the Los Angeles Clippers in 2007.

Florida State is one of only three teams in the ACC with at least five players selected in the last six NBA Drafts. Only North Carolina (with nine selections) and Duke (with seven selections) have more NBA Draft choices since 2004 than Florida State.”

If developing professionals is the goal of a college program, I’d say Leonard Hamilton and his staff are doing a pretty good job.

(I don’t feel like writing anything original tonight, so I’m dusting off a post I did for the old Afro-Squad website sometime last year. There is of course a reason for this.)

I’ve been a big fan of the Afro-Squad since way back in the day. And on that horrible morning when The Man swooped in and stopped their flow for while, I cried. Who was going to teach me how to be funkier than Dolemite wearing sweaty gym socks?

But now, of course, the Afro-Squad is back and better than ever. Much to my surprise, shortly after I found them doing their thing, they asked me if I wanted to contribute. Of course. Would you say no if Bootsy Collins invited you on tour? I think not. So as the Afro-Squad keeps things funky with the ladies and the leglocks, I’m going to drop a little knowledge about what The Man is up to. Damn the Man.

As Socrates once said, The Man is everywhere, in everything, and completely full of it. You know, to be honest, I don’t know if Socrates actually said that. Maybe I just made it up. But I like it.

Anyway, if you didn’t know already, The Man controls most of the system that is our lives. He makes things cost money so you have to work, he makes you work at work so you have only a few precious hours at the house to sit down and watch some movies or listen to some tunes. Then The Man charges you for the electricity you use so you have to go back to work to pay off the bills. See, it’s never ending. That’s alright though, I’ll go to work. To paraphrase the rapper Paris, don’t let The Man know you understand his plan.

But you know what really makes me mad? You know what really tweaks my melon? Ever see people get pulled over by The Man on their way to work? What sort of trickery is this? Yeah, The Man even gave me a ticket when I was trying to get to work on time. Totally not cool.

Say you have to go work for The Man way early in the A.M. You wake up, clean yourself, grab some grub, and damn, you forgot your ride is on “E”. Can’t get to work with no gas. So you swing by the gas station for a quick fill-up. Now you are running late. The Man will not be happy.

After you throw some gas in the ride, you try speeding a bit to make up some time. But who pulls out behind you? Those flashing lights. The fuzz, the coppers, the po-lease. Damn The Man again. Now not only are you even more late, but because of the ticket he was kind enough give you, now you have to pay The Man some of your hard-earned cash, which means you can’t take your honey out on a date unless you work a few more hours. And that’s if she’s not finding another guy to spend time with while you are spending all your hours at the j-o-b. Which of course, you are lucky to still have; because you know The Man doesn’t take kindly to being late.

UPDATE: Follow The Man’s company on Twitter: The Man Incorporated.

This was the most difficult weekend for me in a long time.

It’s been a while since I followed up on the pain my heart was in last year. If you don’t remember, or even if you do, last year there was a challenger to my attention. My desire for my long-distance love was being infringed upon by a growing local interest.

To summarize, at first she caught my eye. Then my interest in her grew. I never stopped loving my long-distance love. She was just so far away. Then in the fall, when my long-distance love lost her bearing, fell back into old habits, and collapsed in front of everyone, it was my new local interest who seized my heart and spent the fall with me. I was smitten.

This year I was better at balancing my emotions. Neither my long-term love nor my local interest were completely capturing my heart. They were both just kinda there, doing their thing, making me smile at times, but never truly clutching my love.

Then I noticed something was going on. My local interest had left to travel to the city of my long-term love and was preparing to duke it out over me. She claimed she was going to destroy my long-distance love, shattering my memories, ridding my heart of any remnants of yesteryear. She was going to be the only object of my affection.

On Friday night, my long-distance love stood up to the challenge, smacking my local interest in the mouth. On Saturday, they faced off again, each putting their best foot forward. But it was my local interest who came up victorious. Nothing was decided between them, and to be honest, I wanted it to end that way.

Sunday brought a third and final battle between the two loves of my life. To my dismay, it was a back and forth fight to the death. I really wanted it to end a tie. But my local interest clobbered my long-distance love with a vicious blow, taking the victory. And now she is on her way back to the Tampa area, ready to take on the world.

I wish I knew how to feel. I want to be happy for my local interest. She has really made something of herself. She has cleaned up and become the envy of all of her peers. But I can’t ever let go of my long-distance love. We’ve been through the good times and through more bad times than I could even try to count.

As tough as this past weekend was, there is a chance my heart could be torn even worse. There is a chance that one day I might have to choose who to spend the fall with. And if they end up fighting over me then?

I might just cry.

Hey, how you doin’?

The name is Hack. As the title up there implies, I’m a fifth generation Wilson, named after my great-great-grandfather Hack. Of course, my parents weren’t the most original, as they named me Hack as well. You would think somewhere along the way someone would think out of the box. What if I was to become a reporter? Huh? How would a writer named Hack be able to keep a career? But I digress.

As you can expect, I was born into Cubs lore. Next to Ernie the fourth and Ryno the third, I am practically royalty. Of course, I haven’t been around too long, but what I don’t understand is the doom and gloom you Cubs fans are always talking about. For my whole life the Cubs have been pretty good. They’ve always had that Lee guy at first and that nutty Zambrano character on the mound. You know, I think Big Z would have fit in well with Great-Great-Grandpa. If it wasn’t for those off-season regiments and that fitness thing, I think ol’ Z would be the type to throw down a spirit or two. Or four or six.

As you can see, I’m a bit of a drinker myself. It runs in the blood. Not only am I a Wilson, but I am also a fifth! From the moment I got off my mom’s boob, I’ve had a bottle of the Lord’s holy brew in my hands. That’s a fair trade, I think. I also like to think I can already out drink the average sorority girl. Bring it on, Brittney!

Now I don’t watch too much of the Cubs. My attention span is still only about 15 seconds, tops. Most of my days are filled with the regular rigmarole of eating, sleeping, or taking a dump in my diaper. And I occasionally cry. I don’t have time to watch baseball. But I do catch a Cubs highlight every once in a while. My old man, Hack IV, was a big fan.

So what I am doing here in the Saloon? Well, a few weeks ago, the old man and my grandfather, Hack III, threw back a few too many Old Styles and left me in the parking lot. Thank goodness that compassionate humanist Brant Brown decided to bring me in and keep me around. From what my new dad (that’s what I call him) told me, that Wolter guy wanted to sell me to the Chinese. Something about payback for the great Gremlin invasion and impressing Phoebe Cates, whatever that means.

Now I live here in the Saloon, ensuring the wings are hot, the burgers are greasy, and the beer is tasty. I’ll be popping in every so often to babble about something or another. Don’t worry, I should start making sense in about 18 months or so.

While mindlessly perusing the Web, I found this video on www.Archive.org:

Description: This is a clip from a Universal Newsreel dated September 15, 1937. This clip features Dolores Gonzales and Clara Mortensen in a bout that took place September 1, 1937 in the San Antonio, Texas Walkathon arena. The referee is Dr. Karl Sarpolis, also a wrestler. This is the first professional female wrestling bout held in San Antonio. Clara won the match, but later faced Dolores again for a re-match because of claims that Sarpolis was an unfair ref.

Wow. There are some moves in here that would make even the most modern fan get off their feet. Check out the flip at the 1:25 mark and the spinning whatever-it-is that spills into the crowd at the 1:31.

So the other day I found a dollar. This dollar, along with the other dollar I found in my spare pair of pants, gives me two dollars. Now that I have two dollars, I think I will invest one of them. Maybe, just maybe, I can make a third dollar. Then I will have three dollars.

But where to invest my one dollar?

Maybe in a municipal fund?

I just finished reading an article about municipal bonds (yes, I read financial newsletters). This article got me thinking:

Could municipal bond investing represent a certain demographic’s level of faith in the local government’s ability to stay afloat?

More than just an investment opportunity, investing in municipal bonds is a statement of confidence in the local government. It is a strange dilemma that people could have more faith in the stability in corporations than in their own government.

A true measure of the popularity of municipal bonds would be to measure the actual investment and compare that to expected (or average) investment in a typical scenario. Especially during expected times of municipal bond prosperity. If people aren’t investing in bonds when the market says it is financially prudent for them to do so, that means there is another factor in play. Possibly something social, such as faith in the system.

What if no one believed in government investing opportunities? Would the government tax more?

I’ll admit, I don’t know much about this stuff. But those are just some thoughts I had.

They do seem smart though, don’t they?

Maybe I will take my one dollar and invest it in an independent minor league baseball team.

That sounds like a much more stable investment than investing in the government.

This is a story I was working on a few weeks ago but had put down because I didn’t have the time to flesh it out. After reading fellow blogger Brian Spaeth’s latest post on his broken face, I decided to pick the story back up and post it here. Enjoy.

When I was little, my father was famous. He was the most well-known back of the head slapper in the neighborhood. And he was the house discipliner. He wasn’t scared of anyone, but we were scared of him. If you acted up, acted out of line, or acted the fool – whap! – my dad would smack you in the back of the head. He was like an old west gunslinger, hands in his pocket one moment, an unexpected whap!, and his hands right back where they began.

Over time I’ve noticed I’ve grown a lot like my dad. The hair on top is thinning, I waste my nights drinking and talking about the government, and I perfected the magic art of slapping the back of someone’s head. I became quite the master. I could slap someone without them even knowing it was me. Even when we were the only two people in the room. Left-handed, right-handed, it doesn’t matter. I was an ambidextrous head-slapper.

Unfortunately, however, my penchant for slapping heads became a bit of a problem. The urge was uncontrollable. I couldn’t pass a bald-headed person without giving their round, shiny dome a nice, hard whap!. One day, for example, I was stepping out of a public bathroom stall and absolutely could not control myself from smacking the head of a gentleman standing at a urinal. My hand hit the back of his head, his front of his head bounced off the wall in front of him, and he collapsed in a heap in front of me. That was last time I went out to my favorite pub.

I didn’t fare any better in other places either. While in church a few years ago, I smacked the back of the head of every person in an entire pew as they were bowed in prayer. Their painful yelps sounded like a choir of anguish. Needless to say, I was quickly banished from Father Carmine’s community of the faithful.

Desperate and alone, I went to the only place I knew that could offer solace: the local stripclub. An amazingly bad idea. Although I was able to restrain myself from smacking the back of the heads of the gentlemen tossing dollar bills to the dancers, I was quickly escorted out in a bouncer’s restricting embrace after I smacked the back of a stripper’s head as she hung upside down off a pole.

My passion to imitate my father’s disciplinary technique became my cross to bear. I didn’t know how to control myself. I finally sought psychiatric help.

After six months of deep, prolonged mental probing, I am proud to say that I am cured. I no longer have the urge to smack the back of anyone’s head.

A nice round ass, on the other hand …