Wednesday, May 20, 2009


Having survived a time travel trip back to 1970 in the Waybac Machine to relive my boyhood illiteracy and a schoolyard crush on a little girl named Yolanda [see Dear Diarrhea], I got the idea to continue this LOOK BACK IN ANGUISH theme by revisiting my youthful interest in art.

As most little kids do, I loved to draw - particularly my heroes, cowboys and TV's Batman. Here's one of my early Adventures In Art, put on paper when I was five or six years old. Below is Batman and Robin in the midst of battle. This is from my mid-'60s Hallmark BATMEMOS notepad. Not exactly sure what's happening here, but that sure is some crowded airspace. "Quick, Robin! To the BatB-52!"

When I was 15 years old, I made an oil painting for my maternal grandma which I titled "The Pinkest Rose." The color is a bit washed out in the photo and the rose may appear to be a paint-by-numbers thang, but it ain't. This was baked from scratch. If you're wondering why there are no leaves on that stem, bear in mind that this was 1976, the year of the great foliage shortage.

The remainder of the drawings presented below are selections from my various sketchbooks. All of them were made from 1977 or '78 through 1983. During those years, I was supporting myself by doing Background (or "Extra") work for movies and television shows. I would usually keep a sketchbook with me to kill time with during all those long waits while lights and cameras were being set up for the next shot.

By now, the nice boy who painted nice roses for his grandma had become a bit... uhm... eccentric. Now the "art" (if we can call it that) was not quite acceptable for polite company. I was letting my mind run wild, and what these drawings lack in technical skill they almost make up for in strangeness (or what I like to call "imagination"). Contrary to what someone who can't even draw a decent stick figure may mistakenly think, these illustrations are not much good. I took one Life Drawing class my senior year in high school, and that's the course I most often cut in order to hang out at the beach with my friend, Eric. Other than that one class, I am entirely self-taught, and so my drawings are fundamentally flawed. They consist primarily of ink and bad habits.

People looking through my sketchbooks would invariably ask the same question: "Man! What drugs were you on?" I grew tired of the question, so in a couple of instances, I tried to nip it in the bud by writing "No drugs!" somewhere near the drawing.

My brother, Napoleon, took these photos for me with his cell phone camera. (Thanks, Nappy!) When he saw the first drawing below he exclaimed, "What the hell is THAT?!" I told him, "I don't know. I guess it's just a 'Sunrise Over A Mongoloid' since that's the title I gave it." Nappy replied, "Well, you always were weird. And all your friends were weird, too."

The notation in the bottom left corner reads: No drugs!

While I was growing up in the Los Angeles area during the 1970s, there was a car dealership owned by a man named Cal Worthington. Worthington made a lot of local television advertising spots in which he would appear wearing a cowboy hat. Every commercial began with him saying, "Hi, I'm Cal Worthington and this is my dog, Spot." Appearing with him would be a lion or a tiger or a camel or an elephant, or just about any sort of animal one could think of... except a dog. Cal Worthington's dog, Spot, was NEVER a dog. Well, one day, I put my own spin on that idea. The illustration below is titled, "Cal Worthington's dog, Spot."

This is a pencil portrait of Ella Fint. She is 5'4", has blue eyes, brown hair, and she is 22 years old. Her important numbers are 35-23-34. It says Ella Fint is "Single... for reasons unknown."

Now, I'm no architect, but something tells me the landing legs on this otherworldly spacecraft are not structurally sound. I can only assume that those long legs are made of some superstrong metal unknown on planet Earth.

Just to prove that I wasn't always playing the part of Mister Bizarro, I would occasionally draw something sort of normal. Below is a portrait in pencil of Debbie Harry from the bad pop group Blondie. I never liked Blondie, but my artist friend Eric did. I think he mostly just wanted to do nasty things with Debbie. I was never particularly fond of Fleetwood Mac either, but Eric was. I think he mostly just wanted to do nasty things with Stevie Nicks. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)

Alright, enough of that stuffs! Back to the Bizarre.

When I was a teenager, I liked to close my eyes and listen to Pink Floyd albums through headphones and just let my mind wander. Whatever images came to me while I was listening to Floyd's odd noodlings, I would later draw in a sketchbook. My two favorite Floyd albums to conduct this sort of exercise with were Ummagumma and Meddle. There's nothing like the instrumentals "Echoes", "Careful With That Axe, Eugene", or "Several Species Of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together In A Cave And Grooving With A Pict" for igniting a person's imagination.

Below is the result of one such experiment. I guess on this occasion, the music made me feel as if I were nothing but a head with a single foot attached to the bottom of my neck. Up above is the message "No drugs! Except for Pink Floyd" and an arrow pointing down to the illustration. Below it is the question, "Ever felt like this?" Well, OK, maybe you haven't. And that's probably a good thing.

Just a common Dragonthang on another planet. You know.

Below this pencil drawing it reads: "You cannot hide anything from him! He knows all your best kept secrets." Well, isn't that comforting?

Another pencil drawing. I have no idea what this is, but no drugs were involved in the process of creating him.

A self-portrait in pencil. This isn't the drawing you take home to mother for her to hang on her refrigerator door. "Look what my son made. Isn't he... uhm... special?"

No drugs! No drugs, I tell ya!

This drawing was made when I was still fascinated by the idea of beings visiting the Earth from outer space. Years later, after some serious study and thought, I came to realize that UFOs and their occupants are actually demonic entities, not visitors from outer space. If something strange with structurally unsound legs ever lands on your farm, run - don't walk! - to the nearest church or brewery.

This is a Facescape, and Nappy's favorite drawing from my sketchbooks. There's Dennis The Menace in there, and Marlon Brando, and Jesus. Even a cartoon version of that American traitor Jimmy Carter appears below.

An experiment I would occasionally attempt had me trying to draw like I did back when I was five or six years old. In other words, I was trying to think like a child and unlearn how to draw. It was more of a mental exercise than anything else, and it's more difficult than one might imagine. If a person can actually draw with a reasonable amount of precision, how does that person go about undoing that ability? It's like attempting to unknow a fact you've learned.

I wanted to regress myself and artificially draw the way I naturally drew as a child. With practice, I found that holding the pen higher than normal, I had less control over it and that helped, but nevertheless, some experiments were more successful than others, as I couldn't always climb sufficiently back into my childhood mind.

I have one page that was a much greater overall success than the one below, but I chose to show this one instead because I think it includes my single best result.

The drawing titled "A Punk Rockr" was a total failure (what does a child know about punk rockers?) and so was the illustration of "A guitar." First of all, few 5 year-olds are going to spell guitar correctly. This shows that I wasn't really thinking like a little kid. Secondly, there is too much detail and too much accuracy of shape to believe that this drawing of a guitar was really done by a child. But "Franknstin" and "A baseball playr" came out pretty well.

I think the best I ever achieved, however, was "A bad boy get spanking." Compare that one with the drawings of Batman and Robin at the top of this Blog Bit. It would be believable if someone claimed that both drawings were done by the same child in the same year. Yep, no doubt about it, "A bad boy get spanking" is the best drawing I ever made.

I probably shouldn't be posting this Blog Bit because of the weirdness factor. We shall see how many of my friends suddenly disappear from my life after viewing this. (I predict that both of them will run away.)

In 1994, I used a black Sharpie marker to put a dragon on a white sweatshirt for my friend The Countess (she liked dragons), and I believe that was the last drawing I made. That was the same year I sought employment as an animator for some silly kids' cartoon program about monsters. I think the cartoon might have been called "Monsters", but I'm not sure. All I remember for sure is that it was really simplistic animation and the production company turned me down. That kind of irritated me because, although I am fully aware of my many artistic limitations, I knew I was good enough to reproduce the slop they were making. I get no respect. Never have. I'm the Rodney Dangerfield of pseudo-artists. Oh well, it's life, and life only.

Now, I'm knocking on the age of fifty and the only time I put pen to paper is to write a check or fill out my time sheet at work. The only thing I draw these days is the short straw.

~ Stephen T. McCarthy

Tuesday, May 19, 2009


May 19, 2009, marks my one-year anniversary of Blogging here at Having posted so many Blog Bits over the course of a year, I see how easy it is for some of the installments to get buried so deep they’re never viewed by human eyes again.

I’ve decided to honor my one-year anniversary by listing some of my better Blog entries here - conveniently linking them in a kind of “Greatest Hits” compilation page.

I don’t know if these Blog Bits really represent The 10 Greatest Hits of Stephen T. McCarthy’s STUFFS (and let’s face it, the word “greatest” is relative and doesn’t necessarily imply that I’ve ever written anything that was worth a damn). But these are what I consider to be probably, possibly, perhaps, maybe the best stuffs I’ve posted here. I could be mistaken, and almost certainly am. However, as I’ve stated elsewhere: "This is just my opinion, but here at ‘Stephen T. McCarthy’s STUFFS’, Stephen T. McCarthy is the king. I’m Stephen T. McCarthy, and it’s good to be the king!"

So, for those who want to revisit some of my old stuffs, or for those who want to just skip past all the very crappiest stuffs and read the merely crappy stuffs, I give you: Stephen T. McCarthy’s STUFFS: Greatest Hits, Vol. I:

2008, May 19
In this Blog Bit I examine some of Rock music’s dumbest lyrics, make a few political statements, and generally just poke fun at a bunch of useless hippies calling themselves musicians.

2008, May 21
Time Flies When You’re Having LIFE
I received in the snail mail an invitation to the 30-year reunion of my high school graduating class. This immediately sent me into denial and a midlife crisis. [*Thanks a lot for the reminder, Class! Just what I needed!*]

2008, May 22
Instructions on how to become a Master Smart-Ass. Learn from the best (me).

2008, May 25
A very confusing overview of my spiritual/religious beliefs and a synopsis of all of the world’s major religions. This also illustrates why a person such as myself who hears voices in his head should never write Blog Bits while tripping on LSD. There’s something here for every freak.

2008, June 5
When I learned that Triple Crown contender Big Brown was actually performing with the aid of steroids, it depressed me. The best way I know of to counteract depression is to write while not tripping on LSD. Here, I give it a shot.

2008, Sept. 25
My brother Nappy and I take a trip to Martiniville (Reno, Nevada) where we drink martinis (and lots of other mind-altering liquids), make politically incorrect sexist remarks, argue about what makes an athlete an athlete, and generally raise as much hell as two old bastards can raise (which ain’t much). Be sure to pack your bottle of Excedrin for this trip because Nappy and I will need to hit that bottle after we’ve finished hitting the others.

2008, Nov. 13
The story of an addiction Nappy and I developed. No, not to LSD or martinis or beer or Excedrin, but to the television sit-com FRASIER. We contend that Frasier is the funniest (but not necessarily the best) TV show of all time. Here are the facts to back that statement up.

2009, Jan. 23
The story that the secular mainstream media wouldn’t touch! Airheadzona Cardinals’ Christian quarterback Kurt Warner was raptured prior to the 2009 Super Bowl. I don’t know the identity of the impostor Airheadzona had quarterbacking during the game, but that interception he threw right at the end of the first half cost the Cardinals the championship. Kurt Warner was watching from Heaven and cussing like a Raider.

2009, April 11
My Pa, who passed away in 1996, uses his favorite music to contact me from the other side for the umpteenth time. (Well, OK, I don’t necessarily mean that literally. Maybe he hasn’t truly contacted me umpteen times – that’s a terrifically large number. But he has contacted me a-lotsa times, and it sure feels like a full umpteen.)

2009, May 3
Travel back to 1970 with me while I relive one of my earliest schoolyard crushes, and experience again the excitement of Little League Baseball. These are all authentic entries from my 5th grade diary… I mean, my 5th grade JOURNAL. Uhp! I was an idiot! But you won’t need to poke fun at me because I do it for ya. You just sit back and enjoy the smartassness.


In the name of cross-pollination, I’m including links to three of my better and/or most informative/important Blog Bits from my political Blog titled XTREMELY UN-P.C. AND UNREPENTANT.

2008, June 16
Things are not what they seem. The Repugnantcan and the Dumb-O-Crat parties are both controlled by a separate entity. An evil entity. We do not have a two-party system, but an illusion of choice and an Elite Squad of conspirators deliberately leading us into a Global Tyranny. This is the truth, and there’s not a damn thing funny about it. Probably the most important piece I’ve ever posted.

2008, June 23
This is my review of the baseball book “Diamonds Are Forever.” In my opinion, the best collection of words I’ve ever assembled. For what that’s worth.

2009, March 22
If you think that what I wrote above in regards to an Elite group of conspirators deliberately leading us into a Global Tyranny was exaggeration, then read this. Don’t take my word for anything, but let some of the conspirators tell you in their own words what they think of you, your country and your Constitutional rights. Here is some of the horsesh#t straight from the horse’s mouth. (Anyone needing further evidence is encouraged to find the out-of-print book "Treason: The New World Order" by Gurudas.)

I hope y’all get something out of this stuffs. It’s the best this smart-azz can do.


~ Stephen T. McCarthy
"As a dog returns to his own vomit, so a fool repeats his folly."
~ Proverbs 26:11

Sunday, May 10, 2009


Baseball’s latest big thing has been suspended for 50 games as a result of testing positive for a banned substance. In this School For Scandal, the player is MANNY RAMIREZ of the Los Angeles Dodgers (formerly of the Boston Stinky Sox). Well, color me Surprised! And color the baseball club Black and Dodger Blue.

According to an Associated Press story:

The Los Angeles Dodgers outfielder was suspended by Major League Baseball for a drug violation, adding a further stamp to what will forever be known as the Steroids Era.

Ramirez said he did not take steroids and was given medication by a doctor that contained a banned substance. A person familiar with the details of the suspension said Ramirez used the female fertility drug HCG, or human chorionic gonadotropin. The person spoke to The Associated Press on condition of anonymity because the banned substance wasn’t announced.

HCG is popular among steroid users because it can mitigate the side effects of ending a cycle of the drugs. The body may stop producing testosterone when users go off steroids, which can cause sperm counts to decrease and testicles to shrink.

Whoa! Too much information.

Naturally, the superstar slugger has an explanation. Any player worth his millions has an explanation. Un-manly Manny pleads physician error:

“Recently, I saw a physician for a personal health issue. He gave me a medication, not a steroid, which he thought was OK to give me,” Ramirez said in a statement issued by the players’ union.

What “personal health issue” were you seeing the Doc about, Manny? Dryness of the vagina? Low egg count? You just couldn’t seem to develop a bun in the oven?

Hey there, Manny girl
There's another Manny deep inside

Manny wants to remind us of his supposedly clean past:

“I do want to say one other thing; I’ve taken and passed about 15 drug tests over the past five seasons.”

You know what that tells me, Manny? That tells me you simply got away with cheating for a minimum of five years. (Count your blessings and your millions and go away.) Besides that, you know you’ve been regularly using Human Growth Hormone (HGH) your entire career.

The smarter athletes (Manny isn’t in that category) will at least think twice about using steroids nowadays, but since there is no reliable testing method for HGH, all athletes can still use that performance enhancer with impunity. And I’d lay you 100 to 1 odds that nearly all of them do. I mean, what Serena Williams and that shehe on American Gladiators don’t gobble up, the rest of the sporting world does.

I generally prefer the American judicial approach of presuming innocence, but when it comes to today’s sports figures, you’ve got to be a real maroon not to assume that virtually all professional athletes are utilizing HGH (with the least ballsy of them still dabbling in steroids – the mother of all performance enhancers). Kurt Warner I trust. In my book, the rest are guilty until proven innocent. GUILTY! Thank you. That is all.

Barring any postponements, [Manny Ramirez] will be able to return to the Dodgers for the July 3 game at San Diego. Ramirez will lose $7,650,273 of his $25 million salary.

Oh, boo-hoo! Welcome to the economic recession, Manny.

Joe Torre, manager of the Los Angeles Scandal-Dodgers said:

“As tough as it is for us, it’s pretty tough for Manny, too,” Dodgers manager Joe Torre said. “I know he’s the one that did the wrong thing and nobody is trying to cover that up, but it’s still something that I know he’s sorry about.”

Oh, sure he is. He’s sorry he got caught. And I can hardly believe that Torre would utter even a single syllable in Manny’s defense. Say it ain’t so, Joe!

Joe Torre, I was never especially impressed with your managerial skills. I mean, seriously, who couldn’t have managed the New York Yankess, the Federal Reserve of Major League Baseball? One could have given a 16-year-old Hindu girl at the Academy For Wayward Youths in Dogbreath Falls, Minnesota, a pencil, a blank lineup card, and a Yankees player earnings list and she could have gotten the same good results managing the Pinstripes that you did. But I’ve always respected you as a person, Joe. Now, with these ill-advised words of support for your banned, chemically cheating cleanup hitter, my opinion of you, Joe, has dropped like the odds of the Dodgers winning the National League West division title.

To hell with sports! To hell with sports, I say!

“You can’t have arguably the greatest pitcher of our era, arguably the two greatest players of our era and now another very, very good player be under this cloud of suspicion and not feel like it has ruined it for everybody,” Atlanta star Chipper Jones said. “But what are you going to do? You can’t be born in a different era. It is the Steroid Era,” he said.

If that statement leads anyone to believe that Chipper Jones has always played clean, let me remind you that this is the same Chipper who cheated on his former wife and later married the Hooters chick he’d committed adultery with. Chipper couldn’t even keep his dipper clean, so I wouldn’t assume that a manchild who’d cheat on his wife wouldn’t also cheat on his sport. But there has not yet been produced any evidence nor even any allegation that Chipper’s a chemical cheat. So, in all fairness, we must assume that he is… GUILTY! Thank you. That is all.

But for the record, I will argue against Chipper when he implies that Roger Clemens was “arguaby the greatest pitcher of our era.” The greatest pitcher of the Steroid Era was Pedro Martinez, not Roger Clemens. Although Roger the Truth-Dodger is quite possibly the biggest jerk of the Steroid Era’s pitching mound.

For years I have said what I am about to write for the first time: What bothers me most about baseball’s Steroid Era is how the record book has been so completely corrupted. This is why baseball is no longer relevant. I despise the fact that a 12-year-old boy – we’ll call him Timmy – comparing the statistics of today’s chemical cheats with the numbers put up by baseball’s Old Schoolers would mistakenly come away with the perception that hitters like Reggie Jackson, Willie McCovey, and Harmon Killebrew were just OK. How is our imaginary little boy, Timmy, to comprehend the magnitude of artificial statistical difference between a Louisville Slugger and a Louisville Liar? Timmy, my boy, Mighty Casey was on steroids (and HGH).

How could any present or future Timmy look at Reggie Jackson’s measly 563 home runs (Barry Bonds has 199 more) and understand the quaking fear Stephen T. McCarthy experienced every time “The Straw That Stirs The Drink” stepped into the batter’s box against the L.A. Dodgers? I know you’ll never believe me now, Timmy, but because players cheated, the numbers lie! No opponent was more frightening with a bat in his hand than Reggie Jackson. It seemed that monster could hit a home run or three with every swing of the lumber. (The only other hitter who ever scared me as much was Darryl Strawberry, who I always watched with one eye closed and an expression of expected pain already written on my face.)

That’s what troubles me most about the Steroid Era: To future generations of baseball fans, the Old School Godzillas will statistically seem like they were pussycats.

Sometimes I like to speculate on what Ted Williams, the greatest hitter of all time, would have been like on steroids and/or HGH. Can you imagine that Sweet Swing juiced? Holy Peanuts and Cracker Jacks! Instead of being the last man who hit (or will ever again hit) .400 for a season, Williams would have been the first and only man to finish a year with an .809 average, and the only hitter to knock a baseball from Fenway Park to Tokyo.

Well, at least some of baseball’s many cheaters are finally being outted, but it’s too late to save my love for the professional game. Barry Bonds? Busted. Roger Clemens? Caught. Mark McGwire? Bashed. Hopefully Manny Ramirez will be remembered as nothing more than “that crybaby who played baseball in pajamas.” (Has anybody ever looked sloppier in a baseball uniform?)

Now if Major League Baseball could just develop a truly reliable HGH test and get the goods on Randy Johnson for using the banned substance Prima Donna, the sport might finally begin to heal.

Hank Aaron, he was the Real Deal, the true home run king, but these modern All-Star punky cheaters and those not yet outted have ruined the sport I loved most. When McGwire, Bonds, and Sammy Sosa (he of the steroids AND the corked bat) were putting every other pitch into the bleachers, I knew they were all juiced, so none of that mattered to me. They could even hit a home run against my team and I hardly cared. Fools were saying these King Kong home run hitters had saved the game, but in fact they were knocking the final nail into its coffin. And I was aware of that sad reality even as it was occurring. It’s time to bury the body.

With each year that passes, baseball’s all-time hit leader, Pete Weed, is smelling more and more like a rose. Someday, Major League Baseball may be forced to reinstate the excommunicated Pete Rose when he becomes the sport’s least ethically-challenged ambassador extant.

But with all this having been said, and now having arrived at the bottom of the 9th inning of this Blog Bit, I have just 4 and 5/7ths more words for Manny Ramirez:

This song is for Manny; EVERYBODY sing:

Na - na - na – na!
Na - na - na – na!
Hey - hey-ey!

~ Stephen T. McCarthy

Sunday, May 3, 2009


Chuck Berry’s autograph. I has it. Somewhere. He gave it to me on the set of American Hot Wax, a 1978 movie about Alan Freed and the early days of Rock ‘N’ Roll. The problem is, I’ve moved that autograph around so many times that I can’t remember where I last put it.

In an (unsuccessful) attempt to locate the autograph a few weeks ago, I was looking through one of my Treasure Chests (cardboard filing boxes where I store articles from my past) and stumbled upon the diary I kept in 1970, when I was 10-years-old and in fifth grade. Reading through it again, I got the idea that this embarrassing stuffs would make a pretty embarrassing Blog Bit. And if you’ve read much of my Blog Stuffs, you know that I display my personal shame on a regular basis.

So, I’ve decided to post some of the highlights below. The diary was manufactured in 1969 by the Central company (no. 57; made in U.S.A.) It has a brown cover and it says “Five Year Diary” stamped in gold on the front. But since diaries are for girls and Real M-- …uhm, I mean Real Boys don’t keep diaries, we’re going to refer to this record as a “journal”, OK? OK!

I wrote in this journal daily from Tuesday, February 24, 1970 through Sunday, May 3, 1970. Then I abruptly stopped writing in it, but there was one final entry on my birthday, August 8, 1970.

I hope you enjoy reading these diar-- JOURNAL entries as much as I did. You can be sure that I wasn’t laughing WITH me; I was laughing AT me. I am reproducing the journal entries below in exactly the same form I find them in that old book. That means, I have left all of the bad grammar, the misspellings and the lack of punctuation unchanged. This is the genuine article, authentic stuffs: 5th grade maroonism from 1970. Journal o-- I mean, journey on…


I found a girl friend in third grade

she had a brother named Vencen in fifth grade
Mr. Kanters class

Pay no attention to that boy behind the diary: the girl’s brother was named VINCENT, not Vencen.

This exciting stuffs was occurring at Grant Elementary School in Santa Monica, California.

I saw my girl friend in the cafatera eating

she didn’t see me there.

My girlfriend failed to notice me only because she was still unaware that I was her boyfriend. Man, don’tcha just hate it when that happens?

I got in a game with my girl friend the game was hand ball.

Call it what you will, but the real name of the game is “Romance.”

I went on a feild trip so I couldn’t see my girl friend.

This was the only time in history that a little boy was sorry his class took a field trip.

I saw my girl friend at the drug store while looking for a diary.

OK, what kind of freak was I?
You’ve already GOT a diary! What the hell do you think you’ve been writing in for 4 days now?

Anyway, the drug store in question was located on the Southeast corner of Ocean Park Boulevard and 17th street in Santa Monica. It might still be there for all I know.

MARCH, 1970:

It was a bad day I had to go to bed after dinner.

Bad boy! Bad boy! Whatcha gonna do when they come for you? Well, now we know: yer gonna go straight to bed – no TV!

Eric said “Theres your girl friend when we where passing by her and she herd it.

What, was she a cowgirl? You s’pose she might have “heard” it too?

Well, here it comes, folks! Are you ready? Right here:

There it is! After 39 years, I’ve finally provided the missing quotation mark to close the deal on that sentence. Stick it between "FRIEND" and "WHEN." Ahhh. Maybe now I can get some sleep.

By the way, that was indeed the same “Eric” who took that picture of
Jack Daniels and me at the Statue Of Liberty in 1983, and who was later arrested while wearing my black leather jacket and went to jail in Mexico. (Except the last half of that sentence about Eric stealing my jacket and going to jail in Mexico is pure fabrication. In other words, I’m lying like a bad rug on a bald head.)

The regular thing but my girl friend is getting to like me better

Always a good sign when your “girl friend” begins to like you a little. It makes a romance oh, so much more romantic.

I saw my girl friend. and a friend of mine we got in a fake fight.

Ahhh, yes, the old fake fistfight. Nothing gets a girl’s attention and makes her heart flutter for you faster than the ol’ fake fight. Ya know, in the ol’ Romance game, the classic maneuvers just never go out of style.

I have gone sikike

i had a dream that my girl friend ___ [*Can’t read the word. It’s either “was” or “wasn’t”.] in the cafetiria (it came true)

Get this boy his own psychic hotline; there’s money to be made! We'll advertise it as "Stephen T. McCarthy's Sikike Connection."

I s
[t]ayed on the play ground and followed my girl friend then i saw a show with a person that looked like her

Oh, yes! You go, boy! Hone those stalking skills now while you’re young, so that when you get older, you will be a proficient stalker and able to stay half a step behind your prey but two steps ahead of the law.

I found out that my girl friend is in my brothers room in school

Mrs. Owens

Ah-ha! Perhaps you can exploit this situation somehow! Maybe give your brother notes before school starts, which he can then pass to your girl friend during class.

I got to carried away with my girl friend because i haven’t had one in a long time.

Oh, yeah. I hadn’t had a girlfriend since at least second grade, when I had a crush on that little girl in kindergarten who kept wetting herself every time the school bell rang.

OK, seriously, when I was in fourth grade, I did have the hots for another fourth-grader named Mary Ellen. I used to kiss her whenever she was defenselessly hanging upside down on the monkey bars. As I said, the classic maneuvers never go out of style, and I was well-trained in all of ‘em.

Yeah, I was always girl crazy. I remember a family vacation we took with my cousins when I was just a little lad and I overheard my Uncle-In-Law (I guess that’s what he is) say to my parents about me: “You’ll need to watch that one; he really likes the girls and that could spell early trouble.” Bearing that in mind, who could have ever imagined that I would wind up ‘Sweet 49 And Never Been Kissed’? Although I have been screwed a few times by auto mechanics.

I was all upset because of my Girl friend.

You’ll find as you get older, boy, that women often have that effect on men. However, there’s a medicine for it called a martini. Four or five of those’ll fix you right up, son.

she wore a skirt that made her look skineer

What’s skinny is your spelling skills!

To day i don’t know why but i felt like seeing my girl friend a thousand times.

Oh, crap! The boy’s in love! And as we all know… LOVE STINKS!

I stayed after school hopeing my girl friend would but she didn’t.

The first time a woman ever disappointed me. There would be more disappointments to come.

I stayed after school and made friends with Vencen my girl friends brother.

Why you sneaky little devil you.

I was obviously willing to employ every tactic in ‘The Book Of Love And War.’ Now I’m using the girl’s brother to get closer to the girl. That’s the way ya do it! Money for nothing and yer chicks for free. You work that thang, Stephen!

I made friends with Ulanda my girl friend and played with her.

A major breakthrough! My girl friend finally has a name. And I’ve played with her. Let’s just hope I don’t have to marry her now!

By the way, just as the girl’s brother was not named “Vencen”, I also had the girl's name wrong. It was actually YOLANDA.

If I could own the oeuvre of only one musician in history, I would probably choose the recordings of Pat Metheny. Metheny is a great Jazz guitarist/composer. The second track on his album THE FIRST CIRCLE (1984) is a terrific instrumental titled “Yolanda, You Learn.” To this day, sometimes I still think back to that little girl Yolanda when I put that Metheny disc into my player.

I went to Vensins house to play but he couldnt play.

Oh, yeah, I’m sure it was “Vensin” you were really interested in playing with. Serves you right, you manipulative little bastard.

To day we went to the hills and wadded in a swimming hole and i saw a rabbit.

Wadded ya do then?

It was a bore exsept we went to Disneland

What kind of 10-year-old boy goes to Disneyland but pronounces the day a “bore”? Get this kid a doctor, he’s “exseptionally” ill.

Today i didn’t get lucky because i didn’t see Yulanda

Well, you’re still misspelling your girlfriend’s name, but you’re right about one thing: you can’t get “lucky” without seeing the girl. Ya oughta hit— ah say, ya oughta hit the bars, son; you’ll get lucky there. (Boy’s about as bright as a Pet Rock.)

Today we didn’t have much excitment but we went fishing and i caught a fish.

Nothing excites this kid. Not Disneyland, not fishing, not nuffin’. Well, I guess there’s one little 8-year-old girl that excites him. But not much else.

Today is easter i had a lot of fun and tommorow i will get to see Yulanda again.

OK, so it seems colored eggs and chocolate bunnies aren’t a “bore.”

Oh boy today was a day in café. at school my girl friend kept waching me.

Eye contact: one of the essential food groups in ‘The Cookbook Of Love.’

Today was a good day in the cafe Yulanda was waching me and she liked my bike to.

Another breakthrough. When a chick digs yer wheels, that’s half the battle right there. Now put a sissy bar on that thing and stick some Mickey Mantle rookie cards in the spokes and she will be completely under yer spell.

APRIL, 1970:

Today wasn’t a perfect day because i didn’t see you know Who? in the cafateria

No, we don’t know who. But do tell!
And how many ways are there to misspell cafeteria??!!

Today Yulanda was sick from school today so i didn’t be able to see her.

Awww, don’tcha just hate it when you don’t be able to see your girlfriend?

It wouldn’t be until I got into the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth grades that I myself was being made “sick from school.” I guess Yolanda just burned out on it sooner than I did.

Today was a good day because Yulanda was waching me in the café a[nd] sat behind me.

That’s right, if you can’t spell cafeteria correctly, just abbreviate it and no one will be the wiser.

So, we see The Dance Of Love being played out here, and Yolanda and I both knew all the steps: I watch you from a distance; you watch me from a distance. You sit behind me in the kafatearia; I sit behind you in the calfitiria. Pretty soon we’ll both have our straws in the same carton of chocolate milk. A little further on down the road, the chocolate milk is turned into wine (thank you, Jeezus!) and then comes… a baby in the baby carriage.

Today i talked to Yulanda and doug addmited that Yulanda likes me.

Well, of course she liked me. Hispanic women have always liked me… don’t ask me why. No other womens would ever give me the time of day, but the Hispanic gals – for some odd reason I seemed to be the ole! in their frijoles. But now, in my ugly old age, I find that it’s just female Chihuahuas following me around. It’s the damnedest thing!

Doug is my brother. You know him on this Blog as “Nappy” (or, “Napoleon” for long.)

Today something happened about Yulanda but ill just keep you gussing.

Oh, isn’t that why everyone purchases a diary? To keep the pages “gussing” about what’s going on in their life?

Today we had a practice game in baseball at Sunset Park on the second field

My brother and I were both playing for the Little League Braves. Unbeknownst to Nappy and I at that time, our manager was a bigot. He didn’t like Blacks or Mexicans. The fact that there was only one or two Black boys on the Braves and no Hispanics, in a league that had at least as many Black and Hispanic boys enrolled as White boys may have been a clue.

Although The Braves were a good baseball team, our manager’s mismanagement riled my parents and compelled them to get involved in the League. Consequently, within just two or three years, my family had nearly taken over the entire Sunset Little League: My Grandpa went from managing a team to becoming the League president; Grandma was the League secretary and a team mother. My Ma was the League’s chief scorekeeper who taught all the other scorekeepers in the official Major League method (she once worked for both the Los Angeles Dodgers and the California Angels). My Pa was the manager of The Machinists, a team that, one year after our family left the League, went on to utterly annihilate everybody else with the talent that my Pa had drafted and trained. After my playing days had ended, I went on to coach The Machinists for my Pa, and Nappy was our All-Star shortstop.

You didn’t want to get on the wrong side of The Family or you’d wake up with your best pitcher’s head in your bed!

This reminds me of a story which you might not recall because I’ve never told it before: A few years after I kept this dia— er, this journal, my Pa was managing the Machinists and I was his coach, while Doug (Nappy) was our All-Star shortstop who sometimes pitched.

One game in particular, Nappy was pitching, and although he threw hard, on this day he was also getting hit hard. The other team was knocking him around pretty good and he became more and more red-faced as his frustration mounted. And it all went completely to pieces when the opposing team’s pitcher hit a three-run home run off Nappy. We finally managed to get the third out in the inning and Nappy stormed off the mound, mad as hell.

As fate would have it, Nappy was our first batter due up that inning, so he slammed his baseball glove against the dugout wall, snatched his batting helmet, grabbed his bat and stomped out to the on-deck circle to wait while the other pitcher finished his warm-up tosses.

Although Nappy was a dangerous hitter, oddly enough, he wasn’t a power hitter. In fact, even though he regularly hit for extra bases, he had never hit a home run in all his years of playing Little League baseball.

While Doug still had steam coming out of his ears in the on-deck circle, the other players on our team were fooling around in our dugout so I hollered at them: “Sit down, shut up, and watch Doug hit this home run!”

And within a minute, Nappy had indeed drilled the ball over the outfield fence and circled the bases. It was to be Nappy’s first and only Little League home run. And like Babe Ruth, I had called the shot. Hmmm... Maybe I really AM sikike.

That other team’s pitcher learned a valuble lesson that day: You don’t tug on Superman’s cape; you don’t spit into the wind; you don’t pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger; and you don’t humiliate Nappy on the pitcher’s mound.

OK, let’s get back to the d— er… journal.

Today i didn’t do any thing except play and work.

Some days are like that - you just can’t find the time to do all those many things that fall between work and play.

But, say, I noticed that you spelled “except” correctly this time. Looks like all that time spent in a classroom is really beginning to pay dividends!

Today we had a little League game and we won but we had to play a friend of mine.

There is no such thing as a “friend” in another uniform. If he ain’t with ya, he’s against ya. A line drive off his noggin is the friendliest gesture he should expect from ya. But just relax and have fun out there; it’s not about whether you win or lose, but HOW you play the game.

Today I didn’t do any thing except at P.E. (Pysecail Education) I did 2 hundred and 25 sit-ups

Well, we seem to have mastered the word “except.” Let’s see if we can’t work on “physical” now, eh?

Although I do recall that I was a Sit-Up Machine as a youngster, I think we need to take that 225 figure with a grain of salt because my atrocious math skills are still whispered about today all across the globe. Although my spelling improved over the years, my math never did. I still walk into liquor stores, plunk down a handful of change and ask the clerk, “Is this enough for the small bottle of Thunderbird?”

Today we went down to Sunset and got our Braves uniform.

OK, the preseason games have ended. Bring on the real stuffs… and my Ma, the chief scorekeeper. *Wink!-Wink!*

Nah, just kidding. The Family was still just watching from the sidelines in this, our first year of Santa Monica Little League.

Today we had the first game of baseball. The score was 6-4 We lost.

Oh, some pitcher’s head is gonna roll for this next year!

Today wasen’t a good day because every thing i did was wrong

I had no way of knowing that in the future I was going to have years like that.

Today we played a game and won 12-3 Against the Giants.

This was before Barry Bonds had discovered steroids, so he wasn’t much help to the Giants. Besides, we probably pitched around him. Damned if our manager was going to let a Black kid beat us!

Today I missed practice so that wasen’t so good.

No, it “wasen’t.” And neither was your spelling.

Today i earned more money than ever in this thing i earned 50 cents & a nickel

I believe people with good math skills refer to that as “fifty-five cents.”

And I think “this thing” I won the money in was some sort of coin-operated machine, like a gumball machine, but it had little plastic containers that occasionally contained money rather than cheap, plastic toys. Knowing me, I probably put seventy-five cents in that “thing” and thought I was a big winner when I walked away with “50 cents & a nickel.”

Incidentally, I’ll make an embarrassing confession here: I still have trouble spelling the word “nickel.” I can never remember if it ends el or le. I’ll still be looking up the spelling of that word in the dictionary when a nickel isn’t even worth a penny. (Actually, that could be just later this year.)

Yulandas a crep! Today i was mad at Vencen and don’t like Yulanda anymore.

That’s it, it’s all over. The end of a sad affair. And another one bites the dust. I’m pretty sure I meant that Yolanda was a “creep” because I don’t recall ever thinking of her as a crinkled fabric or a French dish. A dish, yes, but Hispanic, not French.

No explanation about what soured me on Yolanda was ever recorded, and all these decades later, I haven’t the slightest idea what it could have been. Absolutely no clue. All I know is that Yolanda was now a “crep” and I was undoubtedly going to spend that “50 cents & a nickel” on myself instead of her. A little black licorice, an ice cream sandwich and a bottle of RC cola ought to heal my tender young heart.

MAY, 1970:

Today i had fun with my friend

were going to form a club.

I’ll bet I named it “The He-Man Woman-Hater’s Club.”

today we had a game and won 22-1.

Oooh, a real nail-biter there. Our opponents had some serious self-esteem issues after that beating.

Today i went to a major League game

the dogers won 15-1.

Hmmm… Looks to me like even my Little League Braves could have whupped the Montreal Expos in 1970. And how was YOUR self-esteem Montreal?!

Well, that was the last dia-- journal entry in the book until my birthday. On August 8th, I recorded my final notes in the book, scrawling them in pencil and taking up all five years’ worth of space for that particular date. Here’s what I wrote:

AUGUST, 1970:

Today was my Birthday i had fun and my favorite present was a photograph of my favorite baseball player Von Johia and wild ___ [*Not sure about the word but I think it’s supposed to be “clothes”.] and my birthday was a smash and a beauteful day.

I can actually remember part of that day. First of all, the player in question was Von Joshua. (At 49 years of age, my spelling is much improved.)

My Grandpa had Los Angeles Dodger season tickets and he had taken me to a game earlier in the year where I saw Von Joshua go from first to third base on a passed ball. His speedy feet so impressed me that he instantly became my favorite player.

That may or may not have been the same game I attended with my Grandpa when I set the all-time major league record of 12 Coca-Colas consumed in a nine inning game. A record that still stands, by the way. It wasn’t until years later that I also set the record for most cups of beer consumed in a nine inning game. Unfortunately, I don’t know what that number is because I lost count after getting into double digits. All I know is that when I awoke underneath my seat at Dodger Stadium, the ballpark was empty and the Dodgers were in the middle of the second game of a three-game series against the Cubs in Chicago.

Anyway, on my birthday, my Ma had taken me and my friend Eric to the Dodger game, and she had contacted an old friend with the Dodger organization to get an 8x10 photograph of Von Joshua autographed to me personally. She presented the gift to me at Dodger Stadium, and I remember that I was so happy I started to cry. I turned and walked away so that Eric and my Ma wouldn’t see the tears.

I was a sweet kid. And I had absolutely terrific parents! (I’m not sure where Nappy came from, but the story is that he was raised by wolves and later adopted by my folks.)

That Von Joshua autograph. I still has it. Somewhere. It’s probably hanging out with my Chuck Berry autograph, and they’re both stealing bases and raising hell with their amplifiers turned up to eleven.

Anyhow, since rediscovering my old journal, I’ve decided to start jotting down my thoughts in it again. On
April 7th, 2009, I wrote the following in that ancient, brown book:

HA! After 39 years, I’ve returned! We’ll see how long I last this time. Yolanda, where are you? Yesterday, I celebrated Jesus coming into my life 15 years ago (4-6-1994) by going to the Claim Jumper restaurant here in Phoenix, AZ. Had traditional birthday lunch: Calif. Quesadilla & Carrot Cake.

Plenty has happened to me over the last four decades. For one thing, a lot of my hair is grey now. Also, I have arthritis and I wear glasses. My baseball glove never sees the light of day and I’m no longer girl crazy.

Nevertheless, true love experiences no entropy (and you can quote me on that). If you thought April 29, 1970 spelled the end for Yolanda and me, you thought wrong. One year later, when I was pitching for the Little League Yankees, I quickly dispatched three hapless hitters who stood between me and my true love. I relate that story in my review of the book DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER.

Furthermore, I’ll have you know that it seems I have never fully gotten Yolanda out of my system.
If I only knew where she was living today, I would take one of my old, grey-headed friends with me and stage a fake fistfight on her front lawn.

~ Stephen T. McCarthy



Hokey-Smoke & Hoo-Wee! Did you see that boxing match yesterday between MANNY PACQUIAO and RICKY HATTON? Pacquiao is faster than a punctured parachute descending from 12,000 feet, punches harder than a Kansas cowboy and displays the precision of a 65-year-old virgin librarian named Madge! He’d be holding political office already if the Filipino people hadn’t voted him down so he could continue knocking the Hattons out. But hats OFF to HattON for lasting almost two rounds against the phuture Philippine Pohlitician.

How’d you Brits like spending hundreds of dollars to travel to Las Vegas only to see the U.K. K.O.ed in under two rounds? Did yer British pounds take a pounding? Bloody ‘ell! Now toddle off; enjoy yer hangovers on that long flight back to Manchester, England, England, across the Atlantic Sea.

And speaking of horses’ asses, did you catch the running of the 135th Kentucky Derby yesterday? Dippity-Do & Woo-Woo-Woo! MINE THAT BIRD going off at 50-1 odds, force-fed the rest of the field his dust, crossing the wire as the second biggest long shot winner in Derby his-tor-eee! On May 2nd, 2009, Swine Flu.

My brother Nappy lost his Derby bet with me but he got the bust when he said winning jockey Calvin Borel sounds exactly like Ernest T. Bass. Bloke looks a little like him, too. Give Calvin the trophy but hide the rocks and bricks!

And that was This Day In Sports, 5/2/Aught-Nine.

If this Blog Bit made as much sense to you as a World War II Japanese code, then you’ve found this website by mistake. Go away.

~ Stephen T. McCarthy
"As a dog returns to his own vomit, so a fool repeats his folly."
~ Proverbs 26:11