I’ve had these at Ssam and one cold day this winter I’m a try ’em at home.

Dig the recipe. I love that he uses cilantro stems. Why not, right? And the mint really makes it sing.

Peace to Think Factory for pointing out this most cool Life Magazine photo gallery of the 1955 Whirled Serious.

There isn’t that much in today’s papers on Bill Shannon, the New York Press Box Legend who died yesterday at the age of 69 in a house fire. Disappointing, sure, but not a surprise–it is the eve of the World Serious, after all.

Still, there is plenty on-line, including pieces by Howie Karpin, Roger Angell, Keith Olbermann, Joel Sherman, Wallace Matthews, Pete Abraham, Joe McDonald, and most notably, Marty Noble. Noble writes:

The AP, which employed Shannon on a part-time basis for years, reported that a neighbor had placed a ladder up to the second floor to reach him, but the neighbor later said Shannon was unable to break the window and disappeared into thick smoke. Shannon had an apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan for years, but had moved back to live with his mother after she developed problems about five years ago.

For all he did professionally — and there was much — he become a tad anonymous and borderline invisible in recent years when his primary responsibilities had included official scoring and his tireless work with the New York Sports Hall of Fame. If he were recognized at all, it was while working when a television camera focused on him in the press box at Citi Field or Yankee Stadium after he made a scoring decision the announcers thought to be wrong. But Shannon knew the scoring rules as well as Billy Martin, Tony La Russa, Joe Torre or any umpire knew the rulebook.

Shannon took pride in the reputation that he helped create — that New York had “tough” official scorers.

“He was a hard scorer, but hard is fair,” said Jack O’Connell, the New York-based secretary-treasurer of the BBWAA. “No homers here.”

Those who disagreed with Shannon’s decision to charge a fielder with an error often heard these words from OS Shannon: “This is the big leagues, sir. That play is supposed to be made.” He was objective to the Nth degree, but he did allow his absolute disdain for the sacrifice-fly rule to show through. Shannon was certain hitters didn’t deserve “free outs” for sacrifice flies and made his opposition apparent by his tone when he properly credited one.

Here are a few more thoughts on Shannon…

Ed Alstrom:

I thought he was a great guy. He was always cordial to me in the booth. My one lasting story of him is not much, but here it is: when I was asked to play ‘Goodnight Sweetheart’ at the end of the last home game in YS2, he was the only one that knew the song and the history of Layton playing it there (not surprising, I guess). I remember him singing it to me outside the stadium.

Sweeny Murti:

We should all hope that we are as good at our jobs and as respected for the jobs we do as Bill Shannon was.

I’ve covered games in nearly every ballpark around the league and in many of them reporters turn around and stare at each other after a bad call by the official scorer. “How is that a hit?” we usually say with disdain. I can tell you that never happened in Yankee Stadium when Bill Shannon was scoring, not by us and not by any of the out-of-town reporters either. Bill took his job as seriously as anyone I’ve ever known. That’s probably what made him so good at it.

Bill’s delivery of a pitching line was as unique as Bob Sheppard’s introduction of a batter. He was the voice of the press box in the same way that Sheppard was the voice of Yankee Stadium. If you cover enough games, Bill’s style of delivery is ingrained in your memory. It begins to feel as if Bill’s way is the only way to read a pitching line:

“The line on CC Sabathia…7 innings pitched. 5 hits. 2 runs. Both earned. 1 walk. 8 strikeouts. 1 home run.”

Then a pause, followed by a repeat, this time read at light speed as one long run-on sentence until a final pause before the last item.

“Sabathia, 7 innings5hits2runsbothearned1walk8strikeouts…and 1…home run.”

Unique is an overused word. It describes Bill Shannon perfectly.

(more…)

My favorite part about sitting in the Yankee Stadium press box is getting the chance to watch Bill Shannon, the official scorer, in action. Shannon, who for years was the head of public relations at MSG, was ripped out of the pages of Damon Runyon. He sounded like Will Ferrell doing Harry Carey and looked as if he’d been drawn by Walt Kelly. He was a bona fide gem.

I was shocked and saddened to learn that Shannon died in a house fire. According to an AP report:

William Shannon was unable to escape the flames that consumed the West Caldwell home where he lived with his elderly mother Tuesday.

Neighbors tell News 12-New Jersey they were able to rescue the mother through the front door.

One neighbor placed a ladder up to the second floor to reach Shannon. But a neighbor says the 69-year-old told them he couldn’t break the window and he disappeared into the thick smoke.

What a horrible twist of fate. I spoke to Shannon a few times but didn’t know him. I hope that the New York papers are filled with stories over the coming days.

At least Mr. Sheppard has good company.

Deconstruction fun.

By Marina Ekroos.

Peace to Saveur for the link.

Dig Michiko Kakutani’s review of Keith Richard’s memoir today in the Times:

Halfway through his electrifying new memoir, “Life,” Keith Richards writes about the consequences of fame: the nearly complete loss of privacy and the weirdness of being mythologized by fans as a sort of folk-hero renegade.

“I can’t untie the threads of how much I played up to the part that was written for me,” he says. “I mean the skull ring and the broken tooth and the kohl. Is it half and half? I think in a way your persona, your image, as it used to be known, is like a ball and chain. People think I’m still a goddamn junkie. It’s 30 years since I gave up the dope! Image is like a long shadow. Even when the sun goes down, you can see it.”

By turns earnest and wicked, sweet and sarcastic and unsparing, Mr. Richards, now 66, writes with uncommon candor and immediacy. He’s decided that he’s going to tell it as he remembers it, and helped along with notebooks, letters and a diary he once kept, he remembers almost everything. He gives us an indelible, time-capsule feel for the madness that was life on the road with the Stones in the years before and after Altamont; harrowing accounts of his many close shaves and narrow escapes (from the police, prison time, drug hell); and a heap of sharp-edged snapshots of friends and colleagues — most notably, his longtime musical partner and sometime bête noire, Mick Jagger.

Michael Caine has a new book out.

Ocean Park 49 (1972), By Richard Diebenkorn

Patton!

More Keith…

Is it too soon to miss the Yanks, yet?

Look who just wrote a memoir.

Hard to imagine the Giants beating Roy Halladay twice–and to go to the Whirled Serious? Just don’t see it. But then again, they’ve got the Freak on their side so it’s not out of the question by any stretch. Anything can happen and often does.

I’ll be listening on the radio because I’ve got Cablevision and Fox is blocked-out.

Let’s Go Base-ball.

Straight out the Bay Area…

Anyone ‘member this dope Underground Record from Houston, mid-late-’90s? It’s a good ‘un.

Hollyrock Quotables.

When I was in third or fourth grade, I saw my first porno magazine, I think it was Hustler. My friend Kevin O’Connor kept it under the front porch of his house. It was water-logged and you could barely turn the pages without ripping them. Not long after, an older kid who lived up the street sold me two Penthouse magazines. I hid them in a bookshelf but not well enough and soon enough my mother found them.

Now my mother had a liberal view of nudity having grown up in the Belgian Congo but that didn’t mean she approved of pornography. In fact, she was horrified. And pissed.

Still, I protested.

“Ma, I’m just using the pictures so I can learn how to draw the female body.”

She took the magazines away. Then she told the old man. He didn’t say a word about it but the next day, he left me three pictures clipped together–clean pictures–with a note, “You can draw these.”

Somehow, that felt worse than just having them taken away or even being punished.

Couldn’t help but remember this scene this morning when I read that Bob Guccione died.

CC and Yanks, do or die, ’nuff said:

Go git ’em boys. We’ve got your back.

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

Fall is here. Last Night’s Dinner remains…dopelicious.

I poured the milk on my sons’ Rice Crispies this morning. “Who wants to hear the cereal talk?” Turns out, both of them wanted to hear the cereal talk, so breakfast was a smashing success. (Is there any meal, except maybe pizza, that your children do not have to duped into eating?)

As they sat there at the table, I paced back and forth as the coffee brewed on the counter. “Today’s lesson is about not giving up,” I told them. “Let’s not worry about losing, because if you actually lose, there will be plenty of time to worry about it after the fact.”

“What?” asked the three-year old. He says “What?” very sweetly, but it’s hard to distinguish whether he doesn’t understand or if he just wasn’t listening. This time, it was probably both.

“I’m talking about the Yankees,” I said. “Yankees!” said the three year-old. “Boom!” said the 21-month old.

“Yeah, the Yankees need more boom. They lost last night,” I said.

“I like De-rak Jeee-tuh and Mar-i-an-oh,” said the three-year old. “Me too.”

“Snap, crackle, pop,” said the cereal.

When we went out the door for school, I asked them if they wanted to wear their Yankee hats or their Stegosaurus hats. “I want my Yankee hat,” said the three-year old. “And me,” said the 21-month old. I checked the temperature, 48 degrees. Hmm, yeah, we don’t need to cover their ears this morning.

“Where’s your Yankee hat, Daddy?” asked the three-year old. I went into the bedroom and couldn’t find it. I grabbed my 1936 Cooperstown Collection version from the pile on my dresser and slammed it down on my head. “How about that one?”

“Bay-ball,” said the 21-month old.

“Snap, crackle, pop,” I said. “Let’s go Yank-ees.” And we walked out the door and into the first morning that it really felt like October.