TRUNK SHOW

Another Moon Mammoths update: Despite a loss on the scoreboard, the debut of the Erie Moon Mammoths appears to have been a triumph. According to John Oliver on Last Week Tonight, the Moon Mammoths, aka the Erie Seawolves (AA affiliate of the Detroit Tigers), have sold four years worth of merch in just three weeks. I was one of those sales:

This shirt arrived Monday afternoon; Monday evening I wore it to a movie screening in Scottsdale, and two different people at the theater recognized it and complimented me on it. One of them, a stranger to me, said "Tusks up!"

The next day I wore it to lunch, and one of the servers recognized it. Later that day, a passing stranger grinned at me, gave me a thumbs-up, and said "Erie!" I asked him if he was from there and he said no, he was a just a John Oliver fan.

Then, as he walked away, he also said "Tusks up!"

That's four people in Arizona, in less than 24 hours. The country is in the grip of Moon Mammoth Mania!

BEST NOT FORGOTTEN

The July/August issue of Phoenix Magazine, now on the stands...

...features the 2025 edition of "Best of the Valley." Your Humble Narrator was proud to once again be among the authors and officious imperious judges of what is best in this community. See if you can guess which eleven finely-crafted baubles of prose were of my painstaking and polished composition!

Moon Mammoths update: Alas, the Erie Moon Mammoths aka Erie Seawolves did not win their debut matchup against the Chesapeake Baysox of Bowie, Maryland, though it was reportedly a good, competitive game; the final was 6-5. But by most accounts a grand time was had by all, not least comedian John Oliver, mastermind of the rebrand, who scurried from job to job throughout the evening. Oliver threw out the first pitch (to scuba diver George Moon, discoverer of the Moon Mammoth), sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" in the Seventh Inning Stretch, and pulled duty as bat boy, public address announcer and concession vendor, selling fans the special mammoth-themed goodies on the menu that night:

Mammoth tusks and mammoth balls for me, please! Maybe the mammoth ears, too...

IT'S A MAMMOTH OCCASION

Man oh man, is Your Humble Narrator homesick today. How I wish I could be back in my beloved hometown of Erie, Pa, at UPMC Park, for the inaugural game of the Erie Moon Mammoths...

...alter-ego of the Erie Seawolves. The team, the AA affiliate of the Detroit Tigers, has been (temporarily) rebranded by the great John Oliver and the staff of his HBO series Last Week Tonight. The renaming is after a fossilized mammoth skeleton discovered in 1991 by a scuba diver named George Moon at the bottom of Lake Pleasant, a glacial lake in Venango Township in Erie County.

The bones were taken to my alma mater Gannon University where they were examined by Professor M. Jude Kirkpatrick.

I had Dr. Kirkpatrick for Sociology, a class he seemed to find a chore; his real interests seemed to be archaeology, anthropology and paleontology. Though a fine specimen, the skeleton was apparently deemed too fragile for reconstruction; it was publicly displayed for just one day before being socked away at the State Museum of Pennsylvania in Harrisburg.

Anyway, Erie is set to party hard this weekend, and the game, against the Chesapeake Baysox, is now underway, so I'm being taunted by images from friends who are there:

Well, as I have written here before, I myself was once part of the pregame festivities at a Seawolves game, reading a baseball sonnet back in 2009; you can still watch it on YouTube. So I've composed a new sonnet for the Moon Mammoth; here it is:

MOON MAMMOTH

Frigid fathoms down into the depths

Where bass and sunfish breathe the brineless murk,

And algae straining sunlight intercepts

And dims the realm where grim hellbenders lurk,

Reposing in this glacier-shoveled grave

In layered silt the fleshless bones would lay,

As petrafaction form immortal gave

A trunked behemoth of another day.

Twelve thousand years elapsed, then to the light

A wetsuit-clad invader it exhumed;

A single day it basked in public sight,

Then academically was re-entombed.

But now the mammoth rises once again,

To urge our local Nine on to the win.

GO MOON MAMMOTHS!

DUMB AND PLUMBER

Last night I finished watching the HBO limited series White House Plumbers...

...about the Watergate break-in, with Woody Harrelson as E. Howard Hunt and Justin Theroux as G. Gordon Liddy, presenting them both as buffoonish boneheads. Lena Headey is quite sexy as Hunt's ill-fated wife Dorothy, clearly much the smarter half of the marriage.

The Wife mostly lost interest in the show after the first of the five episodes, finding the tone too farcical for the subject matter. But I have a feeling that most of the absurd incidents it shows us are based on fact, or at least on stuff those assholes claimed actually happened.

It is broadly played, but I feel like the best, albeit posthumous, revenge against those traitorous twits is to depict them as stooges, self-impressed, amateurish wannabes. Playing them as steely-eyed villains is probably exactly what they'd get off on.

Anyway, it's mentioned several times in the course of the series that Hunt was a hack novelist on the side; it reminded me that I'd had one of his books on my shelf for years and had never gotten around to it. It was a 1972 hard-boiled noir/horror hybrid called The Coven...

...written under the pseudonym "David St. John" (the names of both his sons) and set in D.C. neighborhoods where I used to live and work. It's full of borderline-parody prose like this:

"From there I drove through a city well-lighted for the most part, but largely deserted, for honest people tended to stay indoors after dark in recent years. Out Rhode Island Avenue to a part of the District tourists seldom saw. Hell's Bottom it had been called in the early days. Murder Bay. Old, rundown, and shabby. Condemned windowless buildings, vandalized by gangs of homeless boys. By day a rude, brawling area where liquor stores cashed more relief checks than the few remaining banks. By night a furtive, shadowy zone whose sounds were the crash of liquor bottles, the bang of overturing trash cans, and strangled cries in dark allies. Where love and heroin were traded over barroom tables and stolen cars screamed around the nearby corner...A sprawling raucous quarter slated for demolition when the City Fathers could get around to it. A dying, decaying area where hope was as rare as a starched white shirt."

So you're saying...not a great neighborhood?

There are also loathing caricatures of hippies, Beltway insiders, political staffers, etc. And the hard-drinking lawyer hero is the perfect projection of the cynical badass that Hunt so clearly wanted to be. As an expression of the mindset out of which the abuses of that administration grew, it's a simultaneously fun and depressing read.