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You here? It's Sunday and it's a three day weekend. Go do something outside.

Really, go. I'm not here. Back to normal tomorrow (you have Monday off, I don't...).

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Two years now.

Memorial Day this year has a special significance for me because it's the second anniversary of my dad's death from mesothelioma. I thought time would dull the pain, and it has, but only a little. I got the call two years ago today, and it still stings.

I still sometimes pick up the phone with the intent to call him, to talk about the NBA playoffs or how his tennis game was today or to make plans to see him or to get him out here to visit, but he won't be there. I was looking at a map of Palm Desert and remembered when he visited and we went to the Marriott resort and played tennis and swam in the desert heat, and I thought how great it would be for him to come out again, and then I remembered why he can't. Two years already, and it's still, in some ways, as if he was still around and there's hope. But he isn't, and there isn't, and I know that. And there's so much to tell him, so much to share with him, and I wish every day that I could do that, but that's not how it works. Time doesn't make that any more acceptable.

So how are we going to remember him today? Well, there was nothing he enjoyed more for a holiday meal than a nice big juicy steak, so that's what we're gonna have for dinner today. Maybe he'll join us somehow. I'm buying, dad. Get the porterhouse.

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By popular demand- the previous photo got a huge response- here it is, another photo from the Many Moods of Harry Christopher "Skip" Caray, Jr., this one a sample from the 1970 Atlanta Hawks game program, when Mr. Veriiiiiiiizon Wireless was a sprightly 32:

This was before he got that '76 perm, or stepped on a downed power line. The sideburns suggest a hint of with-it, the glasses reach back to 1963. Truly, Skip Caray is a man for all ages.

Meanwhile, in honor of the Stanley Cup playoffs, here's another entry in my efforts to post ephemera from various sports franchises and leagues that ain't no more, a couple of pages from the game programs of the Jersey Knights, the World Hockey Association franchise that moved from New York (as the Raiders and Golden Blades) to Cherry Hill, near Philadelphia, midway through the 1973-74 season, then to San Diego (as the Mariners) after their temporary stay in South Jersey purgatory. The Wikipedia article's wrong: they were the Jersey Knights, never the New Jersey Knights. Here's the roster page from their next-to-last home game, March 25, 1974 against the team that's now in the finals, the Edmonton Oilers:

Harry Howell was player/coach, graying and seemingly a hundred years old to me at the time. (He was 41, and that, now, seems young enough) The star was Andre LaCroix, a former Flyer who was a star for most of the WHA's brief history. They played at Cherry Hill Arena, your basic small ice arena with only enough locker room space for one team (the visitors changed at the hotel) and chicken-wire above the boards rather than plexiglass. This ad for a hair place has photographic evidence of the chicken wire:

That jersey was actually the New York Raiders jersey from the season before, with the word "Raiders" removed and the Knights logo glued on in its place. The next season, in San Diego, the team wore the same jerseys with "SAN DIEGO" diagonally across for practice. (The home jerseys were white with orange and blue trim; the road jerseys were orange with white and blue trim) The Cherry Hill Arena later was renamed the Centrum and hosted minor league hockey (the Jersey Aces) before being torn down; it's now the site of a shopping center (the Centrum Shoppes).

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Here's the non-commercial-pitch part of today's hastily-written, under-thought-out "The Letter From All Access News-Talk-Sports" newsletter, in which I dash off a few things off the top of my head for the talk show folks out there:

There's an article in today's New York Post headlined "25 Things Every New Yorker Should Know." It's one of those "service articles" with hints on how to do stuff like make an egg cream (don't they have people to do that for you?) and get past bouncers and co-op boards. While the article isn't that great ("how to people-watch like a pro"? Uh, sit on a bench and stare?), you can use the concept for your own market or for other purposes.

I could come up with a lot more, but, frankly, I'm far too busy and important for such a task. (And lazy. Mostly lazy.) But feel free to add to it- maybe in an upcoming Letter, I'll compile some of the best and we'll have a REAL list.

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Will someone please explain to me why my neighborhood doesn't lose power during storms, but when it's 70, sunny, and light winds, bam, the electricity cuts off?

Twice today- TWICE- we lost the juice. No explanation, out for a few hours. No weather trouble, no construction accidents, it just... blew. I couldn't work, I couldn't do much of anything, and all I COULD do was sit there and forlornly look at the computer and the TV and wonder what life was like in the 1700s. Lord, am I pathetic.

On the bright side, the Phillies are in town to break my heart again. Off to the game....

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I have been advised by experts- OK, my friend Joe- that my presence at Dodger Stadium when the Phillies are in town guarantees a loss by the Phightin's, and therefore I should be barred from the ballpark.

Last night, he was right. 7-0.

I'll be there tonight. And tomorrow. Let's see if his theory holds up. (And, come to think of it, I can't recall ever being there when the Phils won...)

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The answer: I guess not.

Phillies 8, Dodgers 6.

That's a relief.

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And now, the jinx is back.

This time, Fran was with me at the game, and the Phillies instantly fell behind while the Dodgers were taking batting practice against Eude Brito, in his first major league start (welcome to the bigs, kid! Hope you haven't sublet that apartment in Scranton yet). Meanwhile, the temperature started at 91 and probably hit "Broil" sometime around the fifth inning. We bailed in the seventh with the Dodgers up 8-0- we had much better things to do, like commune with the morons at Wal-Mart, including the woman with two kids and a basket stuffed full of stuff which she insisted the checker check for prices on an indivudual basis, then when all of it was checked out, then demanded that the whole purchase be voided and re-rung one at a time until it reached the amount she wanted to spend. (The cashier kept looking at me and whispering an apology)

It's evening now and still damn hot, so I'm gonna shut this thing down and try to cool off. You'd best do the same. (Tomorrow: last "Sopranos" for a while. Prepare yourself)

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