Did you ever play Wiffle®Ball? Unless I’m mistaken, most of you probably have. After all, the plastic ball, half of which is perforated with oblong holes, has been around for fifty years, as has been the game itself. Playing Wiffle Ball doesn’t require a stadium (a back yard will do). It also doesn’t require nine people per team (one person per team will do). And, the base runners are imaginary. And finally, with Wiffle Ball, no neighbors end up with broken windows.

I can recall summers when it seemed as if the Wiffle Ball game began in June and ended on Labor Day. Because of its curious construction, the history of which can be found here, the Wiffle Ball permits just about everyone can throw curves like a major leaguer. It was great fun.

I think I gave up Wiffle Ball playing about the same time I discovered girls. Until recently, I had assumed that only kids play Wiffle Ball.

Wrong.

I have since learned that grownups play some serious Wiffle Ball. In fact, I was particularly surprised to learn that New Jersey boasts the “New Jersey Wiffle Ball Association,” and that in 1995, 1996 and 1997, the Trenton Giants won the title of the “Number One Wiffle Ball Team in the World” (fast pitch competition). Grownup Wiffle Ball Leagues exist in several other states and also in some foreign countries. Who knew?

I think it’s high time that Wiffle Ball becomes an Olympic event. Write your congressional representatives and Roone Arledge.

As for me, my Wiffle Ball days are over. I think I’ll stick with horseshoes and beer. I do, however, wonder if anyone makes plastic horseshoes with oblong holes in them.

Note: “Wiffle” is a registered Trademark of The Wiffle Ball Inc.

I laughed out loud at this one.

T.L. Hines will be interviewing Dark Horse Presidential Candidates, starting on Friday or thereabouts. It could prove to be very interesting and/or entertaining. It will be happening here every Friday.

Speaking of Dark Horse Candidates, my personal favorite was Henry Krajewski (pronounced Cry-YOO-ski). He was a pig farmer in Secaucus, New Jersey. (Many years ago, Secaucus actually was the home of many pig farms, and I swear that one can still smell the aftermath today.) He was also a saloon owner.

He ran for President in 1952 as the candidate for the “Poor Man’s Party” and again in 1956 for the “America’s Third Party.” Link. A most colorful character, he spent the rest of his life (he died in 1966) capitalizing on his presidential bids. He was quite a local celebrity and a much sought after speaker, all of which brought lots of business (I am told) to his tavern called “Tammany Hall.” Here is a picture of Mr. Krajewski.

Shortly before he passed away, he spoke at my college. After his speech, he took questions from the audience. One student asked him what his plan was to lessen world hunger. Ol’ Henry replied, “Da solution is simple. In every bundle a wheat we send ova’dere to India we ought to put in a little ‘boit control’.”

Henry Krajewski – Jersey’s favorite Dark Horse.

I’ll bet you didn’t know that there is a picture of a penguin on the license plates in Antarctica. Neither did I until I checked out License Plates of the World. The site contains pictures of license plates from virtually every country in the world and from every state in the United States.

I admit it. I often find goofy shit to be interesting.

via The Ultimate Insult

The author of Two Nervous Dogs claims to get only twenty hits per day. And, of the twenty readers, only five are bloggers. WTF?? I’m a regular reader, and I know that Craig at MTpolitics and Sarah of Trying to Grok are as well. Can three such charming and astute people be wrong? Do we have so little juice? Or, could it be that our collective legs being pulled just a bit?

If, however, it is true that only twenty people per day are reading Two Nervous Dogs, that is just wrong. There is good stuff there. Go look.

Forty-five years ago today, after completing a performance at the Surf Ballroom in Clearlake, Iowa, Buddy Holly boarded a private plane that he had chartered to take him to Moorhead, Minnesota, the next stop on the Winter Party Tour. He had chartered the plane because it was a cold night, and the heater on the tour bus was not working properly. He was looking forward to getting a bit of extra rest before the next performance. Accompanying Buddy Holly in the single-engine plane were Ritchie Valens (who “won” the seat on the plane on a coin toss), the seventeen-year old singing sensation, and the Big Bopper, a well-known radio disc jockey from Beaumont, Texas who turned “singer” with his hit record “Chantilly Lace.”

Shortly after taking off in the early morning hours of February 3, 1959, the plane crashed, killing all three performers as well as the pilot, Roger Petersen. Thanks to the brilliance of Don McLean, February 3, 1959 will always be remembered as “The Day the Music Died.”

Buddy Holly, of Lubbock, Texas was born “Charles Hardin Holley” (the spelling of his name as “Holly” arose from a mistake on a contract). He studied guitar, violin and piano, and also learned how to play banjo and violin. By the age of twelve he had formed a bluegrass duo and was performing on a local radio station. In 1955, he recorded “That’ll Be The Day,” which was ultimately released in 1957. Link

Shortly after the record’s release, Buddy Holly (sporting his geeky, thick glasses) and his band made very successful appearances before largely black audiences at the Apollo Theater in New York and the Howard Theater in Washington, D.C. “That’ll Be the Day” rose to number 1 the same year. In 1957, the group recorded other hits, such as “”Words Of Love”, “Maybe Baby” (Tony Soprano, if you recall, sang bits of this tune one in at least one episode.), “Not Fade Away”, “Every Day” and “Peggy Sue.” Link

His music was an inspiration to the Beatles, and his songs have been covered by scores of artists. He was one of the original inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of fame in 1986. He is buried in Lubbock, Texas.

Ritchie Valens, born Richard Steven Valenzuela, in 1941 grew up in a small town north of Los Angeles. Like Holly, Ritchie Valens learned to play guitar at an early age. While still in his teens, he was discovered by Bob Keene, the president of Del Fi Records, who gave him the name “Ritchie Valens” and a record contract. His first song, “Come On, Let’s Go” was a hit, selling 750,000 records. Link Thereafter, in 1958, he wrote and recorded “Donna,” a song about his then-girlfriend, Donna Ludwig. On the flip side of the record, he recorded “La Bamba,” a tune he had learned as a boy. “La Bamba” is perhaps the song he is best known for today.

He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2001. He is buried in Mission Hills, California.

The Big Bopper was born Jiles Perry Richardson a/k/a J.P. Richardson, in 1930 in Sabine Pass, Texas. Before and after military service, he was a disc jockey, and at one point remained on the air for 122 hours non-stop, thereby setting a record. He took to writing songs for himself and others, and in 1958, he recorded the novelty song “Chantilly Lace.”

He is buried in Beaumont, Texas.

I was just shy of being a teenager when that plane crashed in Iowa. I knew all of Buddy Holly’s hits, and I was absolutely captivated by Ritchie Valens’ “La Bamba.” And, virtually every pre-teen I knew, our hormones making their initial surge, could sing all the lyrics to “Chantilly Lace,” including the refrain, “Oh baby, you KNOW what I like.” I was devastated by the news bulletins about the plane crash that appeared on our black and white television set. Seeing the photos of the plane’s wreckage in the local newspaper the next day made it all the more real.

Don McLean got it exactly right.

Check out “You Don’t Smell Like Flowers Anymore.” Put your drink down. Turn your speakers up.

Thanks to Da Chef of da Future, one of the Usual Suspects. He can core a apple. Zip, zip zip.

I am, at very best, a very casual football fan. In fact, I wonder if it is even fair to identify myself as any kind of football fan, casual or otherwise. I assume that a basic minimum requisite for “fanhood,” is making some effort to regularly watch football games. In that regard, I fail miserably. Given a choice between watching the History Channel or a football game, the History Channel wins every time.

If pressed as to which is my favorite team, I would say the “Giants,” even though I’m not very happy that the team permits itself to be called the “New York Giants,” (don’t give me that “Football Giants” baloney), even though the team practices and plays all its games in New Jersey. That preference is really a carryover from my boyhood, when I really was a Giants fan, and the Jets didn’t yet exist.

However, my lack of much interest in football notwithstanding, I, like zillions of others, will be watching the Super Bowl later today. The reason I will be watching it, as opposed to the History Channel, is that the Legion Post does a Super Bowl Party each year, and it is something I like to support. Besides, I usually spend Sundays at the Post with the Usual Suspects anyway, so what the hell.

A couple brothers who are post members put the party together. For a single price, the bar is open and the food (heavily Italian, with the mandatory kielbasa) is catered. Only men turn out for this event (the women Usual Suspects go as a pack to a movie and dinner), so the fare is “manly” rather than pretty. The salad hardly ever goes. The room is noisy, smoky (cigar smoking is allowed), and raucous as hell. There are pools for each quarter and a pool for the final score. They are the kinds of pools I like because winning is a matter of blind luck.

The other day, my daughter asked me which teams were playing this year, and I responded, “The Patriots – I don’t remember if they are called the ‘New England Patriots,’ or the ‘Boston Patriots’ – and a team from South Carolina named after a large cat.” So much for my “fanhood.”

It should be a fun day anyway.

Cousin Jack is on a roll.

Check out. “Sing Along with Johnny” and “Sing Along with Howie,” both with appropriate apologies. This is funny stuff.

He could sell these to SNL.

Check out this one.