Bad postcard of the week: The mystery of the disappearing Wawa goose

It's a really, really big goose.

Today we have a sad tale, which we shall call “Mysterious Demise of a Landmark.”

I’m talking about the apparently late, great Wawa Goose.

This week’s bad postcard takes us to the northern shore of Lake Superior and the little town of Wawa. Wawa means “Wild Goose” in Ojibway . I know you were wondering.

I must say that I was intrigued by the title, “The View From Wawa’s Famous Goose.” I’m not sure I’d climb especially high to get a look at the Canadian version of an interstate, especially if I’ve been riding for hours on said road.

Do Canadians call their interstates “interprovinces?” We’ll have to look up that one.

Anyway, the view really isn’t that spectacular, so the goose must be the attraction. Let’s read the back:

“High on a hillside at Wawa, Ontario, the huge, 30 foot WAWA GOOSE, built of steel on a concrete base, stands as a monument to the completion of that section of the Trans-Canadian Highway No. 17. In the view at the left, the highway, known as the Lake Superior Circle Route, is seen winding through the valley below.”

Now, I’m the kind of roadtripper who will stop at just about anything, especially if I have the Gnome of Victory and Celebration along to pose.

So on the off chance that I am in Wawa, I would likely pull over to check out a 30-foot steel goose, especially if it is one of the three weeks of the year when it is not snowing there.

Plus, seeing a Canada goose in Canada is kind of cool.

 

The goose might be gone, but it looks like there are plenty of other things to do in Wawa.

And, check out the glowing review left on tripadviser.com: “Bigger than Life: Really a stunning statue. It really is a majestic bird. The sculpture/artist captured a unique pose of this avian beauty. There were several other variations of this statue throughout key locations in Wawa. Each unique by the pose captured.”

Now I’d point out that a “bigger than life” goose could actually be not all that big. A bigger-than-life goose could conceivably fit in the trunk of my Civic. But this one does appear to be really, really big.

Sadly, I might not ever know – and not because my travels don’t often take me to northern Canada.

I saw the link to the Wawa goose cam and pounced. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same. This is why the Internet is an amazing thing.

The goose is … gone. OK, here’s our mystery. What the heck happened to the goose?

There are different versions.

The goosecam site reads:

“Wondering how the goose flew this coop...?  A little bird told us that the structural engineers say that our Goose is cooked!  It’s been laying golden tourism eggs for Wawa for years but now Wawa is on a wild goose chase for $500,000 needed to re-feather our town. Let’s flock together and fly over to www.thewawagoose.com.  Put a feather in your cap - make a $50 contribution towards towards a new HONKER!”

Keep in mind, that’s probably $500,000 Canadian dollars, which means it’s probably like $700,000 American dollars.

Then, the always accurate Wikipedia tells us “The Wawa Goose has been temporarily removed for refurbishment after heavy flooding damaged the sculpture in late 2012.”

Flooding?  The sculpture is 30-feet tall and up on a hill that provides views of the interstate-like road. That would be a flood of Noah-like proportions!

Then, the official Wawa goose fund-raising site tells us another story:

“:Unfortunately, our old Goose has announced that he will be retiring by this Fall. Even though he will be missed, he ‘s told us that he is tired and his weary knees can’t handle the long standing periods any longer, not to mention our really cold winters! So it’s official, he needs a replacement to take over his important job and we need your help to make this happen!”

They…think…it…talks.

So it looks like we will never know.

We did learn that this is actually the second goose. The first was made of plaster and chicken wire and lasted three years before the Canadian winters did him in. He now resides in the safety of a downtown general store.

Bad postcard of the week: Newsflash -- water is wet!

Hey, Eunice, what does that water feel like?

How does the water feel?

Wet.

I remember when we were kids and went to an ice show at Nassau Coliseum. The way out was along the ice rink. The normally tall hockey rink boards weren't there. You could reach over and touch the ice, which is exactly what every kid did.

An usher, in that classic usher voice that indicated both authority and disdain, said something like, “Keep moving, and don’t touch the ice.”

And I remember someone’s mom or grandma telling the usher, “They just want to touch the ice. Let’s them touch the ice.”

Sensing victory over the usher, I quickly did reach down and touch the ice, along with every other kid within earshot.

It was cold.

It’s not like we were strangers to ice on Long Island. It just needed to be touched. It’s like when the waitress tells you to be careful that the plate is hot. It’s a small rebellion.

I recalled that moment when I saw this week’s bad postcard.

It looks like one person reached over to see if the water was wet, and everyone else on the boat needed to follow suit.

Perhaps the back reveals more: “FLORIDA’S SILVER SPRINGS. Home of World Famous Glass Bottom Boats. Hand Feeding Fish.”

Silver Springs is two things. First, it’s a Fleetwood Mac song that I have a love-hate relationship with. It’s a beautiful song. The studio version was left off “Rumors” for length and demoted to the B-side of the “Go Your Own Way” single.

The live version is even better, and was included on the 1997 reunion, “The Dance.”

It’s great, with one big problem. There’s the line “You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.”

That should be, “the woman WHO loves you,” of course. I know Stevie is full of angst, but that’s a huge grammatical error. How come no one ever pointed that out?

Anyway, it’s distracting as I listen to an otherwise beautiful song.

Silver Springs also is also one of Florida’s first tourist sites and another reason why Florida tourism history is divided in pre-Disney and post-Disney eras.

Silver Springs is famous for crystal clear water, though it appears kind of muddy in out postcard. And people could ride in boats like “Chief Osceola” and look through the glass bottom boats and see what is below.

Apparently the boats also were trailed by hungry fish. I suppose that’s fun – in a pre-Disney sort of way. Not exactly Space Mountain.

Now if you want to hand-feed gators in the Everglades, that would be a thrill ride.

Bad postcard of the week: Guys like to stay in risky motels

Occasionally my work offers the opportunity to stay in some really nice hotels  – like last year’s overnight visit to the Essex House overlooking Central Park.

And, when I go places with my baseball buddies, we tend to stay in the cheapest places possible.

We are guys. We would rather spend our money on food at the ballpark. And we are not adverse to a limited amount of risk and adventure.

I thought about one of our riskiest stays when I saw this week’s bad postcard. We’re headed to Kansas and the 50 Motel, which boasts of cable TV and electric heat.

Actually, there’s more. The back reads: “50-Motel, West Highway 50-Emporia, Kansas, Phone DI 2-7587 – Joe and Jo Ann Lapping, Emporia’s finest motel units, featuring individually controlled flameless electric conditioning. T.V., phones, sound proof, American Express, free coffee. Conveniently located ½ mile east of Kansas Turnpike entrance on Highway 50.

I’m not sure what featuring individually controlled flameless electric conditioning is. But I’m glad they didn't boast about big, fluffy pillows. Or, about snazzy décor, unless you like cinder blocks and paneling.

Still, it’s nicer than a place we stayed in once.

We were headed from Cleveland to Detroit for one of our glorious executive games. The four of us opted to spend the night in Maumee, which is just outside of Toledo and the then-home of the Mud Hens.

Being guys on a baseball road trip and our stop unexpected, we opted for the cheapest place possible.

Now, my version of the cheapest place possible actually means the cheapest Hampton Inn or similar chain with a breakfast bar that includes a waffle maker. And splitting a room four ways makes that somewhat reasonable. Plus, you get waffles in the morning.

My companions disagreed. For one thing, we’d need two rooms. And another, they had lower standards.

Gulp.

We ended up in a chain famous for being inexpensive.

We walked into the office area and discovered the clerk sitting behind the kind of thick bulletproof glass you see in gas stations in dangerous neighborhoods. I've never seen something like that in a Red Roof Inn, much less the Essex House.

“Our car is safe here?” I asked my buddy. What I really meant was, “Are we safe here?”

I know I slept with one eye open, possibly both of them. Every voice or footstep in the corridor brought fear and a reminder that there would be no waffles – should we survive the night.

We did survive, of course. But I walked out into the corridor in the morning and there on the white wall appeared to be a splash of red liquid that wasn't there the day before.

Now, it could have been paint, or ink, or nail polish or something like that.  But I don’t think so. 

I was never so glad to check out.

So while the long-gone 50 Motel had flat pillows, I see no blood or chalk outlines or police tape. We stayed in worse.

We must embrace opportunities to shine like Sid Fernandez in the Big 5-0

I’m not freaking out about 50.

Seriously.

I think the only people who should be depressed about aging are those sad souls who have not experienced amazing things and have not been surrounded by people who love them.

With those two things in mind, I recognize that I have been blessed far beyond what I deserve.

If I were a baseball team, we’d be wearing a sweet patch with golden numbers.  Making it this far in reasonably good shape is reason to celebrate.

So in keeping with tradition, we are declaring this the Sid Fernandez birthday.

Fernandez, of course, wore number 50 to salute his native land of Hawaii.

By the way, this tradition is going to get more challenging as we move into numerical territory frequented largely by coaches and players who start spring training in the major league camp but don't necessarily finish there.

But El Sid is a worthy representative of our arrival at the mid-century mark.

He was a little chunky, and a little inconsistent. He could be frustrating. I can relate. 

But when Sid had everything working, he was pretty special.

When the Mets needed him most, Sid came through. 

The Mets came out a little flat in the deciding Game Seven of the 1986 World Series after the magical comeback of Game Six.

Down 3-0 in the fourth, Ron Darling allowed another runner. The game -- and the championship -- seemed to be slipping away.

Davey Johnson pushed Sid from the rotation to the bullpen during the Series because he feared the Red Sox would tee off on the lefty in cozy Fenway Park. That had to hurt.

But with the Series on the line in Game Seven and fellow Hawaiian Darling in trouble, Davey called for Sid. 

He rose to the moment, stopping the bleeding and shutting the door. He was masterful. And the Mets’ bats finally caught fire and roared back to win the game and the Series.

There are times in life when we are counted out and feel passed over. And there are moments when we are given our chances to shine.  As my friend Jeff said, we are given opportunities to excel. 

So our goal for year 50 is to embrace those moments, like Sid.

Bad postcard of the week: Boldly dining in forbidden food places

Schensul's boasts of being Kalamazoo's pride.

We need to start with the back of this week’s bad postcard to make the front even more special.

It humbly states: “SCHENSUL’S CAFETERIA, KALAMAZOO’S PRIDE, MICHIGAN’S FINEST. One of the nation’s best. This can truthfully be called one of America’s most outstanding cafeterias. Seating capacity 450. Five air conditioned Dining Rooms. Organ music noon and night. Unexcelled food. Service and sanitation to match beauty of surroundings. ‘A Must When In or Near Kalamazoo.’”

OK, that’s quite a build-up. 

As we know, I’m no one’s definition of a foodie. I’m very happy eating at Panera Bread, and Chili’s for those special occasions. But I’ve been in some very nice restaurants with some spectacular meals and even views.  Looking down on Navy Pier fireworks while dining on the top floor of Chicago’s Hancock Tower was an amazing experience.

So, with lines like “Michigan’s finest” and “one of the nation’s best” and “service and sanitation to match the beauty of surroundings,” we had high hopes for Schensul’s Cafeteria – until we flipped over the card to see the photo.

Holy letdown, Batman!

I do see that each table has its own ashtray. Imagine the smoky haze hanging over that room in the glow of a fake fireplace, shouting over the din of Gladys pounding polkas on the piano. Kind of sparsely decorated, too.

But apparently the place was pretty popular. I found references to it as a “legendary” cafeteria offering “mouth-watering meals and a genteel atmosphere.”

There are a couple legendary places in West Michigan that we've avoided in the 14 years we've lived here – Mr. Burger and Russ.’ My wife has vowed to never set foot in neither place. But she was out of town this week, and my daughter and I are bold.

Mr. Burger is sort of like a cafeteria in that you grab a tray and work down a line. We boldly entered once before, getting all the way up to the spot where you tell the cook what you want. We got cold feet. Caroline actually ran out.

This time, we stayed. I got pancakes despite it being after 9 p.m. and Caroline ordered a cheeseburger. I’m confident the décor hasn't changed in decades, and we were the youngest customers in the place by about 20 years.  The meal was filling, but small soda cups without the option of refills were a bit of a deal-breaker.

Next we took on Russ,’ which has several locations in West Michigan. Think of it as a Dutch-themed Denny’s.

The Holland location was famous of having “no-tip tables,” where you phoned your order in to the kitchen. You can insert a Dutch joke here. But since I'm likely to be walking in the Tulip Time parade for the first time this year, I shall refrain. It's a long parade, and I have no desire to be pelted with windmill cookies. In the hands of a skilled and outraged attendee, those things can be flung for both accuracy and distance, kind of like ninja stars.

We arrived at the 28^th Street store after 9 p.m., noticing that the sign in the window indicated it was open until 10. We were only a few steps in when halted by the manager. “Sorry guys,” he said. “We’re still on our winter hours. We close at 9.”

Reality set in. We were just thrown out of Russ.’

This rivaled the great McSorley’s Incident of 1983, when my Vignette buddies and I were unceremoniously asked to leave the historic New York watering hole for ordering beers at the bar and taking them to our table, which, apparently is frowned upon. We decided that there was more value in getting thrown out of McSorley’s than actually staying.

We made another attempt at the Plainfield Road store on a different night. I was still dressed for work, and this frightened the hostess.

“I see you are dressed up. Is this some kind of occasion?” she asked with wide eyes.

We get asked that question when we make reservations at Reds on the River, and sometimes they bring over a special birthday or anniversary dessert. I wasn’t expecting that at Russ.’

“No, though we are celebrating our first time at Russ.’”

The hostess exhaled, and explained that when she saw a dressed-up dad and high school daughter, she feared there was some event at nearby Northview High, and that she was about to be hit with a large wave of parents and kids.

Nope. Just us.

I didn’t see any no-tip tables, but there was a waiting area that was larger than my dorm room.

The setting was pleasant. I didn't care for my meal – billed as something like a pulled-pork sandwich, but with turkey – but Caroline liked her fried shrimp. And we had a coupon.

I can’t say we’ll be heading back to either place. Maybe Schensul’s organ music noon and night might have helped. But Caroline and I are adventurous and Mr. Burger and Russ’ are no longer forbidden culinary mysteries.

Bad postcard of the week: Plenty of parking in St. Simons Island, Ga.

Hey, is that John Smoltz driving away?

I've been able to learn that St. Simons Island in Georgia is a beautiful coastal village with several interesting and historical features and, apparently, is the home to some famous people.

But all we learn from this week’s bad postcard is that there is plenty of parking.

The back cryptically reads: “SHOPPING CENTER And central point of activity St. Simons Island, Ga.”

No fair! That’s practically taunting us by offering so little information.

The photo reveals that our nameless shopping center does indeed seem to have some activity – and plenty of parking.

But we only see one store – a place called Maxwell’s. Maxwell’s must be a pretty cool store to draw this much traffic on such a nice day.  I have no idea what the store sold – it’s not there any more.

You’d think that a postcard called “SHOPPING CENTER” show us more places of commerce, but that’s just one of the problems.

It appears we have some cropping issues. I’m assuming the black car at the bottom is not parked but pulling away – the driver no doubt disappointed in the lack of shopping options. Or, the diver doesn't park well and stops anywhere, like some Michigan folks do when snow covers the yellow lines.

Or maybe he's just worried about being late for Rally Day.

We do see some nice trees and water well off in the distance.

But mostly, we get asphalt – lots of asphalt.

When the asphalt to stores and water and trees ratio leans heavily to the asphalt, it’s a sign of trouble.

I had to know more about this place with so much parking. Turns out St. Simons Island has some interesting history.

First, John Wesley, founder of the Methodist Church, performed missionary work on the island. He was despondent and returned to England because he couldn't convert anyone, and wrote that islanders had more tortures from their environment than he could describe for hell.

I’m assuming he meant the summer temperatures and hurricanes and not the lack of shopping or abundance of parking.

Lumber form the island was used to make the USS Constitution, better known as “Old Ironsides” because cannonballs bounced off its oak planking.

The island was once cleared to make way for cotton plantations, known for its long fiber Sea Island Cotton.

Today, St. Simons Island is home to a number of prominent athletes including Michigan native John Smoltz and Adam Wainwright, he of the soul-crushing curveball that fooled Carlos Beltran for the final out of the 2006 NCLS. Apparently they mingle with former NFL star Jim Brown, a bunch of golfers and former governmental leaders and anchormen real -- Bob Schieffer – and imaginary – Ron Burgundy.  

Maybe just one of those guys can send us a newer postcard so we can see what store replaced Maxwell’s.

Here's some postcard stories from the MLive days.

Bad postcard of the week: 'Jesus, Take the Wheel' and Rally Day risk-taking

Little Bobby in back knows this might not end well.

So this is what was considered “distracted driving” back in the 1960s.

This week’s bad postcard reminds us about “Rally Day,” which in my church has been the traditional end of summer and start of Sunday school.

There’s nothing printed on the back other than “A SPECIAL INVITATION” and a hand-written note trying to urge the DeVries family to Wesleyan Methodist  on Oct. 10, 1965. “We certainly want you to come,” our unsigned note reads.

I’m not too sure if this is the best way to lure a family into the pews.  Because I look at this and I see the start of one of those movies they show in driver education class to scare the snot out of a bunch of teenagers.

Let’s look at the issues here.

First and foremost, the car is in the middle of the road. We can speculate that is it moving, since no one is going to park in the middle of the street.

No one is wearing a seat belt. It’s not like they weren't available in 1965. The first U.S. patent for safety belts was filed in 1955 in nearby Mason, Mich. There’s a good chance that this car has them, and they’re tucked away under the seats.

Not only is Dad not looking ahead for oncoming traffic, he doesn't have any hands on the steering wheel at all! Hey, it's 10 and 2, Pops!

Sally and Johnny on the right, they’re apparently OK with this blatant recklessness. They’re waving happily as if there wasn't a station wagon about to turn the corner in front of them. Neither of them is holding on to anything, so they’ll probably fly the farthest.

Now, see Little Bobby? Notice how he’s separated himself from the others. He might be the youngest member of the family, but he’s the brains of this operation.

The look on his face tells us that Little Bobby isn't happy with any of this. Not one bit.

Everyone else is waving with gusto, but Little Bobby’s hand is up there kind of tentatively. 

We know by the loud orange shirt and dashing blue bow tie that he’s not shy. So he knows something horrible is about to happen. It's as if he know they're waving "Good-bye," not "Hello."

Little Bobby is holding on to the seat cushion of for dear life – as if that’s going to help. 

About the best he can do is break out into a verse of “Jesus, Take the Wheel”  because Pops has clearly abdicated his responsibility. Someone needs to get some help before everyone has the saddest Rally Day ever.

Let’s hope that next week’s homily is on the importance of driver safety.

And while the folks at Wesleyan Methodist might attract thrill-seekers with a dangerous scene like this, we Lutherans prefer thinks a little calmer. Our Rally Day postcards would show a potluck with four different kinds of Jell-O salad.

Bad postcard of the week: "Behind the Music" and the impending breakup of the Om-pah-loom-pahs in Frankenmuth

Just looking at Hans, we know this band is on the verge of splintering.

This might look like a charming little musical scene. But I see trouble – big trouble – ahead for our tune smiths.

This week’s bad postcard takes us to Frankenmuth, which is a neat little place between Flint and Saginaw. I think the name is Bavarian for “near the outlet mall.”

The back has two separate descriptions for us.  The first: “The official Bavarian Festival Om-pah-pah Band entertaining visitors on Main Street. During the festival, held each year the second full week of June, we had approximately 24 different bands playing all dressed in lederhosen. Many visitors spend their time strolling down Main Street buying thousands of pounds of sausage, cheese, homemade foods, handicrafts and souvenirs.”

The second part: “FRANKENMUTH, MICHIGAN – where the gemuetlichkeit of Old Bavaria blends with the hospitality of New America. Located 6 minutes off I-75 expressway.”

Let’s get back to our Om-pah-loom-pahs.  This band is on the verge of a breakup, and this postcard is like an episode of “Behind the Music.” All the details are here, if you know where to look.

Notice Hans, the third guy on the left, with the trumpet. Do you see what’s out of place there? Everyone else in the band has a white plume and red socks.

But not Hans. No, he’s got white socks and a red plume.

Clearly, he’s already expressing what folks in the industry call “creative differences.”

Hans thinks he’s the star, and that people are flocking to Main Street to hear him and his trumpet. Well, they’re attracted by the sausage, cheese and handicrafts, too. But mostly they come to hear him.

The cracks are already apparent. Look at the resentful look from our drummer.  

Note the sneer of resent.

Slowly, Hans’ ego takes over.

First it’s the socks and plume. Then he’s demanding extended trumpet parts, you know, “to give the fans what they want.”

Finally, he shows up early to perform special solo trumpet performances near the Cheese Haus up the street.

This can go a number of ways.

We have the Stevie Nicks model, where Hans dresses like a witch and runs off for some solo albums with special guest appearances from Tom Petty, but stays connected with the Om-pah-loom-pahs. 

They give him his space because, well, he does attract groupies and some are willing to befriend a trombone player.

Or, you have the Phil Collins/Sting model, where Hans and his insufferable ego run off for some solo albums. 

Once Hans gets the taste of success and total creative control – and doesn't have to split proceeds seven ways – the band is pretty much toast. They’ll put out a few more albums, but there are whispers around the Cheese Mouse that Hans is saving his best material for his solo work. Save your money, tuba player. 

Hopefully there will be a high-profile reunion tour someday and everyone can get one more payday before going back to their new day jobs at Bronner's CHRISTmas Wonderland, or the Nike outlet, 

Or, sadly, there could be the Natalie Merchant/10,000 Maniacs model. The music is magical when the rest of the band can keep Hans’ ego in check. They bring out the best in each other. But Hans finally stomps off. The band tries to keep things going with a series of new trumpet players, but it’s not the same.

And Hans, well, there’s no one to tell him “no,” and he’s off doing things like incomprehensible concept albums and setting 100 poems to trumpet music as fewer and fewer people care.

Nobody wins.

By the way, "gemutlichkeit" means a situation that includes a cheerful mood, peace of mind, with connotation of belonging and social acceptance.

If only Hans embraced the spirit of "gemutlichkeit" and didn't stray from the Om-pah-loom-pas.Instead he's just another casualty of the Bavarian Festival lifestyle. Just wear the damn red socks, Hans. 

Here are more bad postcard stories from the MLive days.

Bad postcard of the week: Terrible tots terrorizing Traverse City and time-traveling U.S. Cellular Field

Terrible Tot terrorizing Traverse City!

 Kids can be dangerous. We know this from this week’s bad postcard, which can only be a scene from a Godzilla-like horror movie where the adorable-but-giant little girl walks through Traverse City, smashing and demolishing everything in her path.

Don’t let the smile fool you. That tot is in the middle of a reign of terror, turning beautiful Traverse City into large and smoldering piles of bricks, cherries and tourists. Note the Big Red Carnation of Destruction in her hand!

The back reads: “The Miniature City has returned. You can see 108 wooden buildings, real landmarks of Traverse City – some are 50 years old. The Miniature City building is located just across from Les Hatch Pontiac on U.S. 31 South.”

Whatever.

I know what happens next, because my wife loves monster movies. A bunch of normal-sized kids, at least one whom will be named Kenny, will somehow be allowed to tag along with scientists and once-skeptical-but-now-convinced top military brass as they find a way to either lure the dimpled and dangerous girl-monster back into Grand Traverse Bay – she is wearing a sailor suit – or freeze her solid and drop her off in the Upper Peninsula, where she won't thaw until late July.

My wife watches a lot of these monster movies, both the classics with guys in rubber suits and new ones that show on SyFy that offer past-their-prime actors battling computer-generated sharks/gators/aliens – a combination of them, if we are lucky.

Some, like “Jersey Shore Shark Attack” are good fun. But sometimes, well, I just have to call foul.

Let’s take this scene from “Alien Tornado,” which has been re-released as “TornadoWarning.”

The IMDB storyline: “Aliens invade the Earth using electromagnetic tornadoes as a weapon of mass destruction. Brilliant high school student with her father and blogger involved in the study of tornadoes struggling against time to prevent a huge disaster and defeat the conquest of the planet.”

OK, it’s more plausible than “Sharknado.” Seriously, of all the animals in the ocean, only the sharks are scooped up in the tornadoes?

And this movie was pretty good – blogger-heroes are a good start -- until one scene.

Our high school heroine, Kelly, was in Chicago at an outdoor café when she is alarmed to see tornadoes dropping down into U.S. Cellular Field, home of the Chicago White Sox. We see the ballpark destroyed and the scoreboard hurled into the sky.

Let’s list the problems, complete with screen captures.

First, there is no place on the South Side where someone can eat at an outdoor café and see the ballpark. In that neighborhood, getting to and from your car safely is part of the adventure. It’s better now, but still, there are no cafes.

There is no street cafe where you can see this. Also, note the iconic Comiskey scoreboard.

Note that Kelly was gazing upon U.S. Cellular Field in its post-renovation glory, painted black.

Then, we are presented with an aerial view of the tornadoes touching down in the infield. But wait! This is no longer the black, renovated version of the ballpark. It’s the original, light blue version! Big error!

We somehow traveled back in tome to pre-renovation U.S. Cellular Field. Again, note the scoreboard.

Then, the alien twister rips out the scoreboard. Is it the legendary White Sox scoreboard, with colorful pinwheels that spin and glow when a Sox player hits a home run? NO! It’s the legendary manual scoreboard from Wrigley Field, the famous home of the rival Chicago Cubs!

Yes, somehow the aliens turned the Sox scoreboard into the Wrigley Field scoreboard. 

For this to all make sense, The Cubs and White Sox would have agreed to somehow trade scoreboards and the twisters must be able to instantly transport us back in time to when U.S. Cellular Field was named Comiskey Park and painted blue.

If this time travel happened, did my epic booing of Derek Jeter ever occur?

Look, I can buy into a lot of things with these SyFy horror movies. I can understand Tiffany and Debbie Gibson battling mutant snakes and crocs -- and each other! -- and even New Jersey sharks leaping out of the water, swallowing Joey Fatone whole and landing back in the water. Could happen, though the idea of people paying to see Joey Fatone in concert is a big stretch.

But rampant ballpark misrepresentation destroys any ounce of credibility.

If the filmmakers are placing iconic scoreboards in the wrong stadiums, I’m going to have a hard time accepting that aliens have discovered how to direct tornadoes and use them as weapons to conquer Chicago and, presumably, northern Indiana, since it’s right there.

Movie ruined.

Let this be a lesson to future SyFy film producers. Do not mess with ballparks unless you get your details straight.

Now, a giant super-gator and flying sharks and a terrible tot from Traverse City teaming up to level Yankee Stadium right in the middle of the Derek Jeter farewell tour – I’d watch that.

Bad postcard of the week: As Sochi Olympics come to a close, we look at mysteries of Russian construction projects and Star Trek

The smoke stack probably worked better than the Olympic rings during the opening ceremonies.

As we know from watching the Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russians are pretty proud about the stuff they build.

Oh, sure. We've seen a problem or two or 100.

Sometimes athletes got stuck in their bathrooms and had to break out by smashing through the doors. But hey, that’s why they made those fancy double potties. Help is always nearby.

And they can move suspended things along giant tacks on the roof, which works most of the time.

Buzzfeed has been keeping track of these issues, so there’s no need for us to get into detail. But the Russians are excited by their construction projects.

I know this from a postcard I received this month from a new Russian friend through Postcrossing. It will serve as this week’s bad postcard, as the celebrated, but not entirely functional Winter Olympics draw to a close.

It’s a little difficult to figure out what is going on here.  But through the magic of Wikipedia’s translation, I was able to determine that this is a paper mill in Dubrovka, a town near Moscow.

I have to say, that’s one impressive smoke stack.

The writing on the back from my new friend doesn’t shed light on our spectacular paper mill.

Chakotay

“Hi Dave.  On your profile  pic you look like Chakotay from “Star Trek: Voyager” and as smiley as John S. Barrowman does. I hope you don’t mind this. Live long and prosper.”

I confess I have only a vague reflection of the characters in that Start Trek franchise other than Seven of Nine. And I’m not exactly sure who John S. Barrowman is, even after looking at his website.

I’m going to assume both comparisons were intended as compliments, so I thank my Russian postcard pen pal.

Comparisons are, of course, subjective. Kind of like figure skating judging. The Russians do seem to have trouble with that.

Bad postcard of the week: Mysteries of Canadian 'Haweaters' and walruses in Little Current, Ont.

This is not-so-scenic Little Current, Ontario

Canadians like bad postcards, too.

I learned this after this gem arrived in my mailbox this week. I love it.

Why am I receiving bad postcards from Canadian strangers? Let me explain.

Several years ago I stumbled across a website called Postcrossing. It’s like the middleman for pen pals who like postcards.

After registering, the site assigns you a random address, and you send that person a postcard. Then your address is assigned randomly.  Soon, your mailbox starts filling with wonderful postcards from around the globe.

I've received 139 postcards so far—38 from Russia. That’s by far the leading country, and that’s not even counting the now-liberated countries that made up the Soviet Union. Russians might have trouble building Olympic villages, but they are into postcards.

People in Japan send some of the coolest postcards, in case you were wondering.

My Postcrossing profile revels that I like boring postcards. This seems to confuse people.  But my new Canadian friend Jason gets it.

He sent this card of Little Current, Ontario.

We’re so high up that’s it tough to make out any details of Little Current, other than the massive freighter and the event more massive piles of coal. Note that we’re not calling this “Scenic Little Current.”

The back reads: “LITTLE CURRENT, Ontario, Canada. Aerial view showing Bridge, Coal Docks and La Cloche Island.”

Actually, that’s what’s printed on the back. Jason’s note is more revealing.

“Hi Dave, from Ottawa, Ontario! This photo won’t win any beauty contests (did they think it would encourage tourists to visit?!), but you did say you didn't mind boring cards, so hopefully a bit ugly is OK, too.

“Here’s a story I have not told on a postcard before: In the 1990s, my girlfriend lived in South Bend. Driving back to Guelph, Ont. one time, I must have been in a daze or on autopilot because I ended up in Grand Rapids when I meant to pass through Flint! Seems like a lifetime ago now.  I've been in Ontario now for 13 years and have 2 young kids. Best to you, Jason.”

I suspect Jason was headed north on US 131 and was so dazzled by Kalamazoo that he missed I-94. That’s OK, because Grand Rapids is a nice place. That wasn't autopilot; it was an inner desire to experience the glories of West Michigan. Come see ArtPrize.

Canada’s a fun country. They put walruses on their stamps. A lot of countries might not want to boast about being a frozen wilderness. But not Canada. It owns it, ice bergs and everything.

And we don’t just get a single walrus – or morse de L’Atlantique for our friends in Quebec. No, there’s a whole walrus family there.

Now, I didn't see a single walrus when I was in Toronto last year. They must be nocturnal.  

Anyway, I did some research, since we’re not going to learn much about Little Current from this postcard.

It’s located on the northeast side of Manitoulin Island, and is actually very close to Michigan.

The always accurate Wikipedia reveals that the town was a place where lake vessels stopped to take on wood for fuel. Lumbering was and still is a big industry, and today the local economy is based on farming and tourism. Jason is correct; this postcard is not going to help.

Apparently the town also hosts an annual “Haweater Weekend.” Sounds interesting.

Apparently Haweaters are the name given to anyone who is born on Manitoulin Island, and the celebration held in the first weekend in August includes fireworks, a video dance, street vendor and a parade.

The Manitoulin Expositor newspaper tells us that last year’s event include a “Haw Run,” a fire truck pull, live roller derby, the “Hawfest Dance,” and “Little Ray’s Reptile Show.”

All of which, I might add, would have made for a better postcard. Thank you, Jason!

The cathartic booing of Derek Jeter

The scoreboard flashed the signal for mass booing

Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter announced today that the 2014 season will be his last as a player.

This will no doubt unleash a torrent of weeping and praise from the Yankee-centric media. I mean, even more weeping and praise than usual.

It’s not going to be an easy year.

Someone has to provide balance, and that person is me.

Here’s a tale from the archives about when Will and I went to see the White Sox play the Yankees, and St. Derek got the booing he so richly deserved. And yet, it was a cathartic experience for this long-suffering Mets fan.

So while Tom Verducci starts getting ready for an ocean of soft rain, he’s a story from 2010 to help soften the blow.

You have to realize that since my time covering Mickey Weston, I don’t boo athletes.

Except for two, that is.

Chipper Jones has simply inflicted too much damage on the Mets over the years to go without some sort of recognition, and we can’t exactly cheer him. But Chipper’s been broken down for the past several seasons, and it been a decade since he’s had Met blood on his hands.

The other, of course, is Derek F. Jeter.

Usually this booing occurs in the relative quiet of my home. But Will and I had the rare opportunity to voice our displeasure to Jeter in person on Frank Thomas Day, and this is the final report of that adventurous afternoon.

Chipper earned his boos for doing his job, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jeter, however, is an on-going insult. He’s not just your basic Yankee, Jeter is Mr. Yankee, and truly is reflective of everything that is wrong with the franchise in the Bronx. Over-hyped, over-paid, over-exposed, over-credited and over-privileged.

We all know that the best shortstop on the Yankees is playing third base because it would be unthinkable to ask the Captain to change positions, despite the very obvious fact that Jeter has the range of a fire hydrant.

(Note: Here is another tale from the archives listing players who have more range than Derek Jeter)

Yet there are scribes like Ian O’Connor who give Jeter a complete pass. I can only assume O’Connor Tweeted this with a straight face: “Despite all the sabermetrics, there is a hell of a value in Jeter's ability to turn every ball hit right at him into an out. #yankees”

I pointed out to the brilliant folks at the Crane Pool Forum that a Major League shortstop is supposed to be able to turn every ball hit right to him into an out. 

Several posters noted that, in fact, minor-league shortstops also are expected to field the ones hit right at them.

Upon further thought, I realized that all players at every level are expected to turn routine plays, even people on my champion coed softball team.

Yet, Jeter has apologists like ESPN’s Joe Morgan, who watch him turn a routine six-bouncer into an out, and proclaim nonsense like “Jeter’s so good, he makes that play look routine.”

Witness the reaction to Jeter’s recent incident of shame against the Rays. A pitch came inside, Jeter leaned back and the ball hit the bat, obvious to all. That would be called a strike on most batters. Yet Jeter started carrying on as if he had not only been hit, but that the ball pounded his hand into hamburger. He was awarded first base, and the next batter hit a home run.

Replays indicated that Jeter is better actor than a shortstop. Exposed as a liar and cheat, Jeter told reporters after the game that it’s his job to get on base any way possible. Funny, but I don’t remember Yankee greats like Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mattingly flopping around and calling for the trainer when they wanted to get on first base. Usually they just hit the ball.

But the fawning New York media again gave Jeter a pass, citing his “intangibles.” Imagine how different the reaction would have been had the faker been Carlos Beltran.

Yes, Jeter has five rings. He’s also surrounded in the lineup by at least five All-Stars. Let’s see him take is legendary intangibles to Pittsburgh and take the lowly Pirates to the World Series. That will never happen.

So all of this pent-up angst had built up by the time Jeter stepped into the box against Sox starter Gavin Floyd in the first inning.

Boooooooooooooooooo!

It was a long, heartfelt display that seemed to take the other people in the section by surprise. 

Frankly, I expected more people to join in. Sox fans were more interested in voicing displeasure toward Nick Swisher, a former under-achieving South Sider now over-achieving with the Yanks.

Jeter meekly popped out the right. This was followed by cheers, followed by Cousin Tim’s legendary “O-ver RA-ted, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap” taunt, which generated a far-greater response at Shea in 2008.

This scenario was repeated in the third and fifth innings, and involved Jeter strikeouts. They were swinging strikeouts, of course, since no umpire is bold enough to call Derek Jeter out on strikes.

We were started to get some cranky looks from a group sitting to our right, all clad in ugly Yankee T-shirts. I did not fear them because, like in a libel case, truth is the best defense and deep down all Yankee fans must know that the emperor isn't wearing any pinstripes.

I actually missed Jeter being announced in the eighth inning, and the delayed booing at Will’s prompting resulted in Jeter walking, and then advancing to second on a wild pitch.

Luckily we were afforded one last chance in the top of the ninth, when Derek the Menace strode to the plate with two out.

I let loose with the much-deserved booooooo when the Yankee fans to the right hatched an obviously premeditated defense. They were attempting to drown out my boo with cheers. It was six on one.

I would not, could not, lose this battle.

I produced a deep, dark, loud boooooooooooooo that arose from the depths of my blue-and-orange soul. It was cathartic. Every injustice endured at the hands of Yankee fans and their media fawners seemed to be set loose, released from my heart and through my cupped hands.

Everything from the McKenna Junior High taunts of 1977 and 1978 through the bat-tossing, Timo-jogging fiasco that was the 2000 Subway series and the Castillo pop drop of 2009 had broken loose.

This was, without a doubt, the longest, most resonating booooo I've ever produced. Philadelphia fans strive to create a booo this loud and long. And yet it was purifying all at the same time.

The weak cheers of the T-shirted gang of six were no match for my disgust and suffering. This boo rose from our perch in the upper deck to hover over U.S. Cellular Field like a fog. 

This was a boo intended to envelope Jeter in self-awareness and shame. I was expecting him to return to the Yankee bench, plop down – and see his teammates all slide away, disgusted.

I started to feel pity for Jeter. Deep down, he knows the truth. Hype doesn't outlast history.

I’m confident that all 10,000 of the Frank Thomas bobbleheads handed out that day nodded in agreement.

I easily outlasted the Yankee posers. Cleansed of decades of Yankee hurt, I could have continued into extra innings. And I feel the need to boo him no more.

Bad postcard of the week: Mystery spots at Central Michigan University

What could possibly have created that mysterious stain?

I don’t think Dad was impressed with my University of Missouri dorm when he saw it for the first time.

“It looks like a condemned mental hospital,” he said.

Floyd Cramer Hall was not luxurious, it’s true. There was no air-conditioning and not much of a breeze, save for Tony’s “Wind Machine” fan to bring relief from Missouri’s humidity. And the radiator clanged loudly throughout the night when the weather was cold. We shared a bathroom with guys from about six other rooms.

So I get it when the folks at Central Michigan University in 1956 thought their sparking new dorm was state of the art college living.

The back reads: “Rachel Tate Hall, Central Michigan University, Mt. Pleasant, Michigan.  One of the newest and finest residence halls in the country. It accommodates 304 students, 4 to a suite. Each suite consisting of 2 bedrooms, a study room and complete bath. Each suite is furnished modern throughout with house phone included. Residents take their meals in Food Commons.”

I’m sure it’s a nice place and all. But there is one highly scary detail in the photo that the postcard copy writer omits. What the heck is that giant stain in the parking lot? What did they do, celebrate the dedication by detonating an elephant?

It’s unsettling, to be sure. Especially since the building has the architectural charm of a warehouse. A potential student would what to know what kind of devastation occurs in the parking lot before moving into such a charmless place.

And it was a pretty rowdy place, according to a CMU historical site:

“Its location next to the Carlin Alumni House, which was the university president's residence at the time, led to many dinner invitations to the president and his wife as apologies for excess noise. In 1958, the entire Homecoming court lived from Tate Hall. The building housed women from 1956 to 1972, and became coed until it was demolished, along with Barnard, in 1997. They had been closed due to low enrollment, structural problems, and general inefficiency. The decision to raze them was based on the high cost of remodeling.”  

We never did such wild things in Cramer Hall, but it has one thing in common with Tate Hall: it’s been demolished.

Floyd Cramer Hall has it was being demolished in 2010. It was home from 1984 to 1986.

I found some photos of its destruction on aaRoon’s Flickr site. Room 4 would have been the next window on the left if we could extend the photo a little.

Temperature issues aside, it was a neat place. While other campus dorms had painted cinder-block walls, Cramer and the four others in our cluster had tan, glazed brick walls. It was different.

It wasn’t carpeted, and “California Steve” and I celebrated our great purchase of a remnant that couldn’t have been bigger than three feet by four feet. We could barely fit on it on the same time. But that was our carpeting.

Tony and I upgraded the bunk beds with wooden lofts, hand-me-downs from Becky and Karen when they moved on. We were styling!

And Cramer was part of Mizzou’s grand experiment – the first coed door. I was there for its first year of mingling the genders. The first floor was for guys, the second and third for girls and top floor for guys. Lacking an elevator, the first floor was the place to be.

I had adventures, experienced new things and met new people. I learned about living from home and shared a room for the first time. I was blessed with patient roommates who tolerated Mets and Twisted Sister posters and all things New York.

Like Tate Hall here, it wasn't much to look at. But it was the setting for many transitions and good times.

Fortunately, there were no mysterious stains outside.