#fantods

[edwardgoreyelephanthouse]

Edward Gorey’s The Object-Lesson read by frances shrand directed by david atwood with music by martin brody, one of the Fantods that occasionally followed a third season episode of Mystery! to round out the hour.

[twentysixtyfour]

Word of the Day

March 14/2019―March 17/2019

[kathywaller1]

All You-Know-What Will Break Loose

All You-Know-What Will Break Loose

  The next driver who honks at me while I’m waiting for a pedestrian to get across the street before I turn will find out I’m not so nice a person as I tell people I am.

I don’t mean I’m going make a rude gesture.

I mean that right there in the middle of the street, I’m going to put my car in Park and get out and drag that driver out of his car, and then all hell will break loose.

And I’ll repeat…

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[crucialandinert]

You know what they say: when one door closes, just wait until nightfall and pry open the window.

librarian/avid reader au, @stylusmaleficarum

[kathywaller1]

No, No, NaNo or, Just Do It

No, No, NaNo or, Just Do It

NaNoWriMo –National Novel Writing Month–the month* in which participants vow to write a 50,000-word novel–and some of them do–began yesterday.

The goal–if you want to reach 50,000 words and win NaNoWriMo (which from this point on will be called NaNo), you need to write an average of 1667 words a day.

I’ve registered for NaNo–there’s a website–at least three times, maybe four. Unfortunately, every…

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[happyrecaps-blog]

Let the Long Season Spin

12 June, Year of the Phoenix; Las Vegas, NV

Here’s Steven Matz, 24-year-old LH SP for the Las Vegas 51s, AAA-affiliate of the NY Mets, his eyes glazed, his living room dilapidated, his non-throwing arm cocked ceiling-ward at 90 degrees. The ceiling is low and the curtains are drawn, the lights of the city radiate outside to themselves, as Matz, discouraged, sits twirling a pillow idly atop his index finger^1. 

Amid the discarded socks and other assorted debris amassed beneath his couch there’s an empty Poland Spring bottle he’s adopted for the spittle produced by the last of his chaw. The bottle occupies his left hand, the thrower. The hurler, the moneymaker. It’s late and he’s spitting as he watches SportsCenter, passively, the spittle pooling at the bottle’s terminus. 

He can’t remember how long he’s been doing it, spinning things around on his fingertip. It’s the kind of talent that’s universally adored, like a truly stupefying magic trick or an uncanny knack for imitation. 

Tonight he attracts no audience, however, just the familiar howlers that chased him on back to his living room following his most subpar outing of the season one day prior^2. 

ABs are replaying in his mind as he grabs a stray tambourine and substitutes it for the pillow, the solo HR to Garrett Weber in particular. Though somewhere he can hear Coach reminding him that solo HRs don’t kill you. 

He spits into the bottle, throwing the tambourine aloft as he passes the Poland Spring bottle from left hand to right, receiving the tambourine with his left index finger as it descends back to earth, gazing blankly into space. 

It’s 31 days^3 now since Noah got called to the Show. 

He feels ready. Plus stuff, plus plus makeup. The book on Matz, Matz knows, is that he’s a fierce competitor. That he stalks the mound and beats himself up, the howlers^4 taunting him in plain view upon each H allowed. 

He trusts implicitly that the nightly confrontation with the howlers is what’s allowed him to reach the cusp of MLB. The idea that he’s successful in spite of, not because of, this tendency is something he’s not really countenanced or even particularly contemplated^5. 

The TV on mute, there’s a pregnant silence in the room. The din of expectant waiting. Someday soon Coach will call him and there’ll be a plane to catch. Everything he’s worked for over the past 5 years, through TJ Surgery comes into focus. 

The rational part of his brain knows his promotion is close, though the howlers remind him that he’s just a few outings like he had against Reno away from the LV-entrenchment Noah had in Y.O.dG, expectant waiting be damned. 

He allows the tambourine to crash to the floor, the silence broken amid a cacophonous clank that inspires not even a blink from young Steven. The last of the chaw is discarded in the bottle, which he caps and sets aside elsewhere on the sofa. His eyes close and he drifts off to sleep. 

He dreams of the East Coast, the Boone^6, and the Big Leagues. He dreams of objects so big you need two index fingers to twirl them, and wonders, dreamily, if that’s even possible in terms of like torque or whatever. 

He doesn’t know it now, but 104 days later^7 he’ll arrive in CIN after a bad loss that capped a worse homestand. Approximately 14 hours later, he’ll make what feels like the biggest start of his life, the eyes of an expectant fan base interpreting his every fantod, all the while battling their own. 

- David Foster Gsellman

Notes & Errata

^1 See, for reference, this page. 

^2 IP-4, ER-4 on 5-H and 3-BB against the Aces.

^3 A lesser known talent, or at least like mental quirk, of Matz’s is that he can instantly calculate the number of days between two points on the calendar. By which ability he is certain 31 days have passed between 12 May and 12 June, where most people would face some consternation about whether it was 30 or 31 days and would sooner just call it a month and be done with it.

^4 LV 51 argot for “howling fantods”

^5 The pedagogy of Marshall Goldsmith not being part of any required or even encouraged reading list published by the higher ups within the NYM organization.

^6 Sandwich consisting of a chicken cutlet, melted American cheese, bacon and Russian dressing on a roll, courtesy of Se-Port Deli in East Setauket, LI, NY.

^7 24 September, Y.O.T.P.

[happyrecaps-blog]

Howling Fantods and Where to Find Them

21 September, Year of the Phoenix

An unhappy thought occurs as I turn on the game tonight. It’s the first time in a long time (all season?) that I’m watching a Mets game not with joy but rather with a sense of dread. 

It follows on a tough 18 hours since the debacle against NYY last night. I turned the game off in disgust, resolving to myself to do something more productive with my time than hate watch the Mets.

I didn’t listen to Boomer & Carton in the morning. I avoided Twitter all day. ESPN too. I just couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t handle the negativity. I couldn’t handle the howling fantods about collapses and what not.

The Mets have been a resilient team all year, bouncing back from injuries^1 and heartbreaking losses^2 and disregarding tealeaves^3. It’s been their hallmark. 

And yet something feels different now. I know it shouldn’t, but it does. They’re not scoring. They’re losing games and all the while WSH keeps pressing down harder and harder on the gas^4. 

The existential dread isn’t insignificant. Uncomfortable questions about the impact of my fandom on my like psyche and my loved ones’ own personal psyches have been raised. 

All of which is to say, I could really use a pick-me-up tonight. 

- David Foster Gsellman

Notes & Errata

^1 See, for reference, “It Was the Best of Times, It Was the…” as published 19 April, Y.H.R. or “Wheels Off” way back on 22 March, Y.O.T.P.

^2 See, for reference, “So It Goes,” as published 22 July, Y.O.T.P.

^3 See, for reference, “Tealeaves a-Blowin,” as published 6 September, Y.O.T.P.

^4 The Voice^a has more or less become resounding, his logic increasingly unimpeachable, is what I’m saying. 

^a See, for reference, “Quiet Little Voices,” as published 17 September, Y.O.T.P.

[infinitereno]

fantods

fan·tod /ˈfantäd/

noun NORTH AMERICAN informal plural noun: fantods

a state or attack of uneasiness or unreasonableness. "the mumbo-jumbo gave me the fantods"

Origin: mid 19th century: of unknown origin.

“A state of fidgetiness, uneasiness, or unreasonableness; nervous depression or apprehension; 'the fidgets;' 'the creeps;' 'the willies.’"

p.45