June 17, 1985: David Letterman goes off on a tangent during Late Night's opening monologue, riffing on Atlanta Braves reliever Terry Forster.
Letterman, who had recently caught Forster in action on TV, called Forster "the fattest man in all of professional sports. I mean, the guy is a balloon. He must weigh 300 pounds. The guys doing the ball game -- Skip Caray and Ernie Johnson -- not once do they mention that this guy is enormous. They pretend the guy couldn't be in better shape. He is a load. Not once, when they see this mammoth figure, this silo, get up in the bullpen... I just want them to say, 'Terry Forster's warming up, he's a lefthander, ERA about 3.5... What a fat tub of goo!'"
The jokes sparked a minor feud between the two, during which a viewer sent Letterman the '85 Topps card seen above (Forster appears to be sucking it in). Dave pointed out that the back of the card lists Forster's weight at 210, causing peals of laughter. He then noted, "Of course, this photo was taken when Terry was 12."
Forster was a guest on the show a few weeks later, and the two buried the hatchet. He gave Letterman a hoagy.
Actually, it's the concept of "Bigfoot" that hits the big five-oh today.
On the morning of August 27, 1958, in the remote, forested wilderness of Northern California, road worker Jerry Crew discovered giant footprints in the mud around his bulldozer. Over the following weeks he found even more prints. Crew finally made a plaster cast of a print he found on October 2, and took it to the Humboldt Times in nearby Eureka. The resulting story, written by Andrew Genzoli, was where the newly coined term "Bigfoot" was first applied to the beast (though sightings of such a creature had been reported for generations before).
As Bigfoot celebrates his golden anniversary, it's time to unveil the latest installment in my site's "Bigfoot is Real" series, A Bigfoot Menagerie.
Bubblegum Card of the Week is back from summer vacation -- did you get our postcard?
Anyway, lots of Bigfoot news this week, but let's examine the other Bigfoot. Even though the forest monster and monster truck share a name (both appear in my daily "Bigfoot" news alerts), they have little else in common. According to its Wikipedia entry, the truck got its name when owner/driver Bob Chandler asked friend Ron Magruder why he was breaking so many parts. Magruder responded, "it's because of your big foot."
Now you know.
This week's specimen is from Topps' series of Allen & Ginter replica cigarette cards, featuring modern subjects rendered in a 19th-century style. Clearly an odd juxtaposition, and I've never seen more wasted negative space on any card, ever (I cropped out over a third of it in the scanned image here). Serious collectors may want to upgrade to the oversize Bigfoot card, which is "autographed" with an actual Bigfoot skidmark.
The card's flipside reads, "the Original Monster Truck®, Bigfoot 4x4, was the brainchild of St. Louis construction contractor Bob Chandler. After 'tricking out' his 1974 Ford F-250 with enormous tires and participating in truck pulls. Chandler decided to try running over a couple of junk cars, just for fun, in '81. Thanks to Bigfoot, the monster truck craze was born. Car crushing became, and remains, a popular American pastime."
Hey, that sounds fun. I think I'll go crush some cars right now.
After reading his Ask Sir Mix-a-Lot column, please view the following video (and sing along if you wish -- lyrics are provided below):
I like big butts and I cannot lie You other brothers can't deny That when a girl walks in with an itty-bitty waist And a round thing in your face You get sprung, wanna pull out your tough 'Cause you notice that butt was stuffed Deep in the jeans she's wearing I'm hooked and I can't stop staring Oh baby I wanna get wit' ya And take your picture My homeboys tried to warn me But that butt you got makes me so horny Ooh, rump o'smooth skin You say you wanna get in my Benz? Well use me, use me 'Cause you ain't that average groupie I've seen them dancin' To hell with romancin' She's sweat, wet, Got it goin' like a turbo 'Vette I'm tired of magazines Sayin' flat butts are the thing Take the average black man and ask him that She gotta pack much back So fellas! Fellas! Has your girlfriend got the butt? Tell 'em to shake it! Shake it! Shake that healthy butt! Baby got back!
I like 'em round and big And when I'm throwin' a gig I just can't help myself, I'm actin' like an animal Now here's my scandal I wanna get you home And uh, double-up, uh, uh I ain't talkin' bout Playboy 'Cause silicone parts are made for toys I want 'em real thick and juicy So find that juicy double Mix-a-Lot's in trouble Beggin' for a piece of that bubble So I'm lookin' at rock videos Knock-kneed bimbos walkin' like hoes You can have them bimbos I'll keep my women like Flo Jo A word to the thick soul sisters, I wanna get with ya I won't cuss or hit ya But I gotta be straight when I say I wanna -- Till the break of dawn Baby got it goin' on A lot of simps won't like this song 'Cause them punks like to hit it and quit it And I'd rather stay and play 'Cause I'm long, and I'm strong And I'm down to get the friction on So ladies! Ladies! If you wanna roll in my Mercedes Then turn around! Stick it out! Even white boys got to shout Baby got back!
Yeah, baby... When it comes to females, Cosmo ain't got nothin' to do with my selection... 36-24-36? Ha ha, only if she's 5-3!
So your girlfriend rolls a Honda, playin' workout tapes by Fonda But Fonda ain't got a motor in the back of her Honda My anaconda don't want none Unless you've got buns, hon You can do side bends or sit-ups But please don't lose that butt Some brothers wanna play that hard role And tell you that the butt ain't gold So they toss it and leave it And I pull up quick to retrieve it So Cosmo says you're fat Well I ain't down with that 'Cause your waist is small and your curves are kickin' And I'm thinkin' bout stickin' To the beanpole dames in the magazines You ain't it, Miss Thing Give me a sister, I can't resist her Red beans and rice didn't miss her Some knucklehead tried to dis 'Cause his girls are on my list He had game but he chose to hit 'em And I pull up quick to get wit 'em So ladies, if the butt is round, And you wanna triple-X throw down, Dial 1-900-MIXALOT And kick them nasty thoughts Baby got back!
Little in the middle but she got much back Little in the middle but she got much back Little in the middle but she got much back Little in the middle but she got much back
Eliza and I did pretty much the same cool stuff in Maine as last time -- staying with her folks on North Haven, hitting rocks with driftwood bats, playing clay-court tennis, eating lobster rolls, napping, swimming in the chilly ocean, napping, playing Scrabble, napping, etc. Like before, the Red Sox happened to be in Seattle while we were in Maine -- it was fun hearing the trains outside Safeco Field in the background of the Sox radio broadcasts. Unlike last time, we also got to visit our friend Megan, former Lobster Queen Sea Goddess of the local lobster jam.
As with any trip, I was on the lookout for goofy regional products. This time I came across Whoopie Pies, Crazy Clams (above), and Lucky Lobsters (below). None of 'em are as fun as their names, though I appreciate that the lobster has the same sugar "eyes" as the Bigfoot cake.
Before heading home we spent a couple days in Boston. Between multiple trips to Dunky's (because there aren't any in Seattle), I met up with Hell Drivers filmmaker/fellow blogger Darren Garnick at Watch City Brewing. He kindly presented me with an M's-era Randy Johnson figurine, though I secretly wished he also brought along his semi-famous baby, the one who'd been photographed with Obama, McCain, Hilary et al.
Yes, the historic ballpark is indisputably awesome, and its Fenway Franks are hard to beat. However, I haven't much cared for the Sox since they blew it in '86, and with their recent success and ensuing overexposure, I'm now pretty much sick of the Sox and their insufferable "Nation." Not only was nearly everyone in the 400-somethingth consecutive sellout crowd decked out in Sox garb (much of which no doubt purchased at the Kmart-sized team store), but there was Sox gear on almost everybody we saw in New England. Still, I got to hand it to the rabid fans, who all stayed long after the game turned into a laugher, and at least through the eighth inning sing-along of that stupid fucking "Sweet Caroline" (an inexplicable tradition that Susan Orlean examines here). A far better Sox song is the Boston-specific garage-rock classic "Dirty Water," though it apparently isn't played if the Sox lose.
An even better local song is "Roadrunner," albeit a more suburban one. I couldn't help but sing it to myself throughout our short stay with Eliza's sister and her family in nearby Waltham. It amused me to drive on Route 128 past a Stop & Shop (alas, with the radio off, in the muggy summer, in broad daylight, in a minivan).