Yuengling Night at Fleming Stadium

Friday morning here in beautiful, sunny, Wilson, North Carolina. We've had a bit of a hot streak recently - hot and humid, it felt like we were living in a sauna for a week. And there's more of that coming, this being the South and all. But at the moment, we've got a bit of a break, and welcome it is, too. It's 76 degrees out, 53% humidity, and it will only get to about 85 degrees and the humidity will actually be dropping as the day goes on. Well, ok then.

Last night, we came home with a new kitten. This was a found object at the building where Mrs. Wiggy works. She's been worried about me since my old sack of fur, Pooka, passed away a year ago - wanted me to have another cat. We were going to get a gray kitten named 'Mouse' from our relatives in the Great White North, but our schedules never meshed enough to do the transfer and the cat eventually sort of grew up and was given to a local family, I understand. So this found kitty is gray, and Mrs. Wiggy went 'Awwwww' and that's pretty much all she wrote.

I'll post a photo as soon as we can get the bouncy little thing to hold still and make a precious face at us for five minutes. Maybe I'll use some NyQuil, that always calmed down my nephews when I used to babysit them. Hehehehe, for some reason, when I used to babysit, my nephews just always seemed to have colds. Babysit for eight hours, sis? No problem, that's about half a bottle of NyQuil - I've got that right here. Send 'em over.

So, Mrs. Wiggy allowed as how since she basically named our Dogs of the apocalypse, Molly and Milo, and since she had already named her two cats, Diarmuid and Fiona before we met each other, then I should name the new kitty. Oh joy! Nothing like inflicting a new name on a small creature, brings out my creative side. Well, everything brings out my creative side, come to think of it. If you read creative as intensely cruel for the sake of a laugh, anyway.

OK, so I get to name little grey kitty, do I? I rubbed my hands together in my best Snidely Whiplash imitation. I would have twirled my mustache, but I tried that once, and damn, it hurts!

Hmmm. Let's see. Physical specifications; small, furry, gray with white boots and a white face, big golden eyes. How about 'Spot'? No, says Mrs. Wiggy. Ah. Didn't know she had veto authority. That changes things.

In a few minutes, we had eliminated all of the English and foreign curse words I know, which is probably pretty predictable, if you know me.

I finally decided on one name that Mrs. Wiggy did not object to. I'm not sure why not. We're going to call the cat "Zone V." "Five," for short. You see, your hero is a photographer in his spare time. Ansel Adams, one of the most famous photographers ever, invented this system for exposing film correctly - he called it the 'Zone System' and many photographers still use it. Mostly crusty old badgers, but you get the idea. Anyway, "Zone V" is medium gray. And that's what she is - medium gray. Also, since we have two cats and two dogs, this is number five in our stable. So, I'm very clever, and Mrs. Wiggy is going to have to endure questioning eyebrows from her friends, family, and coworkers when she tells them the cat's name, and then she can sigh heavily and say "My husband named her." And they'll all go "Ohhhhh" in sympathy because hey, it's me.

So we had an enjoyable time at home last night. Diarmuid, who is our large and not terribly bright orange male cat, knew that something was up and he didn't like it, so he spent the evening growling at the box we brought Zone V home in. Well, I told you he is not terribly bright. Yes, that's right, growl at the empty box. You nitwit. Come to think about it, he could be a Congressman.

Zone V saw the puppies, who are now getting fairly close to weighing fifty pounds each, and she did a great imitation of a drop of water dancing across a hot skillet, all the while hissing and spitting. She seems to have no fear, though. Once she figured out that we had them more-or-less locked in the kitchen behind a Walmart plastic mesh force-field, she came right up to it and proceeded to stick her tongue out at them and curse in a most unladylike fashion. To boldy steal a wonderful line from "Tad Annoyed," she was 'getting her neener-neener on'. I love that line!

We all tease the puppies, though. It's fun, and the only real revenge we get for them eating large structural segments of our house. Here's Mrs. Wiggy getting her neener-neener on:



Well, we somehow all lived through the night. The puppies have continued to eat the floor in the kitchen, it is pretty obvious that we're going to be living like the Beverly Hillbillies in about five more weeks. I mean, you shouldn't have to 'mind the splinters' when you go into the kitchen for a cuppa joe. And by golly, if their digging habits in the backyard continue, I can just hire a truck to pour in some concrete and we'll have that ol' cement pond, just like the Clampetts.

So tonight, my little droogies, is Yuengling Night at Fleming Stadium. And what is Yuengling Night, you ask? Well, the fact is, I'm not sure. I mean, I know what Yuengling is. It is beer. Really good beer. Well, really good beer considering that it is American beer and you can buy it in grocery stores. I am am going to go out on a limb here and suggest that Yuengling Night is when they back the semi-truck reefer up to the stadium and proceed to get the town as drunk as possible. And that's what America is all about, isn't it? If you're gonna try to sell me stuff, I don't want to hear about it on TV or the radio. I want you to pry my muppet face open and pour the stuff in. Preferably for free. And keep doing it until I can't hardly move. Then we'll all drive home like drunken little Weebles, and sleep it off, snoring to keep our annoyed spouses awake.

And you know, I have to take a minute and mention the setting as well. Fleming Stadium is a great place. It is right inside town here, just about ten blocks from our house. It's a great stadium. Built in the late 1930's, it looks like one of the baseball fields used in the film "A League of Their Own" if you recall that one. It's small and intimate and has a great grandstand. You can get in for a couple of bucks, sit wherever you want. Buy beer and watch a semi-pro summer college team play baseball the way you remember it from when you were a kid.

When the game is over, they let the under-5 kids come out and run around the bases; sometimes they have fireworks.

Yeah, the whole thing can be a little cheesy. I mean, the name of the team is the "Tobs" for crying out loud. Short for 'tobacco.' And the team mascot? A freakin' tobacco worm. Yeah, no fooling.




Next Monday? Tank-top night. And then we all get in our Firebirds with our mullets flying in the breeze, and we go home, brush our tooth, and go to bed.

Laugh all you want - I know I do.

But I'll tell you this - in Wilson, North Carolina, there is a real, honest-to-Ruth baseball stadium where they still play real baseball and drink beer and watch the shadows get longer over the playing field as the sun goes down on a hot summer night and the lights come up. We have a miniature train, provided by the local Kiwanis, that runs around a track in a small park and gives the kids rides - no lawsuit has shut it down yet. And if this isn't America, I'm not sure what is. Oh, man. I'm gonna bust out into a John Cougar Mellencamp song any second now. Well, there are worse thing. I could be singing Springsteen. Whatta world.

If Mrs. Wiggy goes for it, I'm gonna go drink some beer tonight and have a couple of slices of America.

Bottoms Up,

Wiggy