Born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska. Swings lefty. Throws righty. Bats third. Zero home runs. Leads team in batting average. Doesn’t wear batting gloves. Plays third base with jolting agility and a musket of an arm. Sports a low angle brim over his eyes and ever present chaw that gives him the mystique of a hard nosed gambler. That’s Conor Gillaspie. He’s the White Sox Wild Card.
WILD CARD!!!!!!
After the Memorial Day holiday we’re back in the basement on Monday morning. I had another weekend. This time is was the oddest wedding experience of my life. A truly stirring and head-scratching thing was said to me, and I am still losing sleep trying to discover its meaning. I got a good Whitest Kids You Know skit about Hot Dogs for you on there. Also, a friend of mine from Ann Arbor named Tasha gives me a call and we kill about ten minutes discussing movies you never, ever want to see.
Songs include: Roll Me Away by Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band, Hot Fun (In the Summertime) by Sly & the Family Stone, Escape by Rupert Holmes, and Lady by the Little River Band.
Where was your seat for the game Friday night? In the 300 level? A crowded bar, a less-crowded bar, in your front room, a friend’s front room, on a boat, with a goat? What was the seat like? Chair with a seat cushion and sturdy back? A hard wooden barstool, your favorite recliner, a third hand college couch? Or were you standing?
Wherever you were and upon whatever you parked your kiester, you were watching the game. With a Conference Finals Game 6 on the road, we were all in the same predicament as to where to watch the game. It would have been sweet to be there in L.A. and see the Hawks bring the series back home for Sunday’s Game 7. But the question arises: if you can’t be there for the live action, as the majority of fans can’t be, then what environment do you choose watch the game in? Or is it a choice at all? Continue reading
Let me tell ya about life at the end of the bench…
What happened to episode 5? Don’t worry about it. I phoned it in last week. It was a sad attempt at a show. I apologize to anyone who listened live, and the only tape recording of the show has been burned.
The topic of six is nine. Baseball players, I mean. I talk baseball, include a brief run through my own statistics, from my broken arm all-star year to my 6-error CYO game, the only pitch I ever threw and my lifetime .082 high school average. Also, a real treat, Ohio State catcher Bubba Gyrion takes me through his league leading 3 ejections, and each “You’re outta here!” is great tale in and of itself.
I got some great baseball songs on the playlist. Who’s on First by Abbot and Costello, Van Lingle Mungo by Dave Frishberg, A Dying Cub Fan’s Last Request by Steve Goodman, and my personal favorite, (Let’s Go) Go-Go White Sox by none other than Captain Stubby and the Buccaneers.
Episode 3 has got some good stories. I’m fresh off leading a Saturday afternoon parade where I led a kazoo band 50-strong and orchestrated a deep dish pizza reception 40-stories above a cool Chicago sunset. Also, I aim to convince a bar-owner that the name he’s chosen for his bar is both offensive and plain old incorrect. The joint’s name? The Arrogant Frog.
Songs include Gondola Gondoli, In the City by Joe Walsh, the Bob Seger song that’s the only one sure way to get me to go, Love and It’s Glory by Minnie Ripperton, Turn Your Radio On by John Hartford, and The Last Thing On My Mind by Tom Paxton.
It’s episode 3.
The big topic is the parade I’m leading on May 3rd. My final parade as Guy in Charge. Jean Shepherd, writer of “A Christmas Story”, describes his Chicago Labor Day parade memories. Steve Stone joins me on the air. We discover the true meaning of the term “Cat’s Pajamas.” And, my two sisters Backy and Steph battle in a debate about the morning donut selection, and then relinquish the mic to 3-year old Logan for a harmonica solo. Finally I’m joined by an old little league benchmate of mine, Aaron Gyrion.
The deluxe model Wazoogle. With goldenhorn amplifier and yellow lightning distorter.
Songs include Thank You for Being a Friend by Andrew Gold, You Should Have Listened to Al & Love Chronicles by Al Stewart, the Mary Tyler Moore theme song, and Convoy by C.W. McCall.
We cover a few things in show #2. We get off to a great start, as I forgot to press the record button until we’re 10 minutes deep into the show. I talk about the hot streak I’ve been on, a special pair of shoes that I believe hold some sort of mystical power, play some Randy Moeller goal calls, and chat with the Old Man and my 3 year old hockey loving nephew Logan. Songs include My Sweet Lord by Billy Preston, Who Put the Bomp? (In the Bomp Bomp Bomp Bomp Bomp) by the Big Bopper, Live from the Moon by Trooper and Man on the MTA by Kingston Trio.
(Show begins at 6:00)
Coming to you now from a new medium. It is the most intensive, the most frigid, the most.. audial of all media… the radio. . the the long-stretching, rolling waves of radio land. Except I’m not on a wavelength, I’m on bandwidth, at Radio Depaul. The Polka Dot Crock Pot airs live 8:00-10:00 am Monday mornings. You can catch me there or listen to recordings as I post them weekly.
The first show included Packback co-founder, ABC’s Shark Tank winner, and most importantly fellow class of 2008 Fenwick Friar, Mike Shannon and KHQA Sports Anchor Will Wilson. I tell my graduation story and ramble on here and there and play a few songs from vinyl.
I stood before four-dozen friends and relatives at my Grandpa’s funeral on Monday, charged with the task of delivering his eulogy. A week earlier, it had been decided I’d be the one to deliver his farewell toast at the reception. Being given the honor of storyteller, I gathered my thoughts, and those of others at the wake the night before, and tried to create some kind of coherent sendoff. There is so much more to say about Midnight Lenny, but here’s the brief address I delivered on Monday.
When we think of the greatest minds in the 21st century, the familiar names come to thought: Einstein, Curie, Salk, and a slew of others. I’d like to argue you could add one more name to that list: Leonard G. Berent, my Grandpa. Continue reading
The doors open at Pticek’s & Son and the people rush in.
Very few things can draw a line of folks out the door and halfway down the block in single-digit temperatures like a Polish bakery in Chicago on Paczki Tuesday. The centuries old tradition of gorging oneself the day before swearing off sweets for forty days resonates especially well with the Polish community, and my family specifically. It’s been one of our favorite holidays for as long as I can remember.
“You get five out of your six (adult) kids to come home for Paczki Tuesday?” a friend of my father’s exclaimed over the phone last night. “You guys must really love paczkis!!!”
We do. But not only for their other-worldly deliciousness.
Pticek’s was packed with patrons waiting patiently for their paczki’s.
For those of you who don’t know, a paczki (poonch-key) is a Polish pastry. It’s two pieces of deep fried dough, covered in powdered sugar, and sandwiched together around a whipped cream, custard, or most commonly a fruit filling.
It’s no wonder there were thirty people waiting outside the door of Pticek’s on 56th and Narragansett at 4:45 am this morning. The place didn’t open up for another fifteen minutes, and people were already antsy to get in, get their deep-fried doughy goods and get back home. I know I was.
The 5:00 am paczki-run has been a tradition I’ve enjoyed being a part of since I was a kid. Every Fat Tuesday I’d be up well before dawn with my mother, and we’d embark on our route. We used to have as many as five stops to make on our route, including auntie’s, nana’s and great aunt’s, who were all depending on us to deliver their boxes of treats. It was an honor as a kid, riding shotgun on the Paczki Express. And once we made it back home, it was our time to have our holiday feast.
In my family, however, paczki’s take on an even greater significance. Little did I know that the palatable Polish pastry was the very reason my parents met.
Paczki’s by the dozen.
The year was 1982, the president was Ronald Reagan. A young Jimmy Berent had just arrived at the bar with a few teammates after a CAC (Catholic Alumni Club) volleyball game. The plan was to get their final indulgences in on Tuesday night before the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday the next day. So they bellied up to the bar for a few pitchers, and to polish off the remaining paczki’s Jimmy had brought with him.
All of the sudden, a pretty-eyed dark-haired woman walks over to his position. She asks, “Excuse me, are those paczki’s?”
“Yes,” Jimmy responds.
“Can I have one?” the woman asks.
“Well, you kind of have to be Polish,” says Jimmy.
“Well my last name is Budzinski…” says the woman.
After nearly falling out of his barstool, my father sliced up a paczki and shared it with the woman who would go on to be my mother. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Paczki Tuesday is a celebration I invite all of you to join, and you don’t even have to be Polish. Paczki’s are better when shared. So go out and grab a dozen. Actually, make that two. Who knows? You might even find that special someone on the other end of that fried dough.
Jake Berent 