Autumn temps are perfect for outdoor activities
The Observer is a sucker for a sale and sentimental to boot, so we weren't about to miss the great Ray Winder Field sell-athon held at the now-closed ballpark last week. No telling what treasures they'd unearth from the bowels of the clubhouse, we thought, although they weren't selling what we, and probably a lot of other Travs fans, would have been most likely to buy — the grandstand seats. Whip up some cushions — if you ever went to a game there, you know you'd have to have cushions — and they'd make prime porch-sittin.'
Either all the good stuff got bought in the two hours the sale was open before we got there, or the Travs took it all with them to their new digs. We did pick up several never-worn pairs of striped red ballplayers' socks for $2 per, Christmas gifts for baseball-fan buddies. And we got a kick out of the rather Spartan piece of orange-upholstered furniture marked “visiting manager's chair.” We also could have gone home with several twin-size bed mattresses, some 1970s-looking office equipment, those wooden price signs from the concession stands, old media guides, or a box of uniform pants Hookslide Bradshaw must have practiced in, from the looks of them.
(Despite the obvious lack of appeal, by Saturday only scorecards and lawn chairs were left. One fan we talked to had actually gone out to the mound and ripped out the pitching rubber.)
As for the field itself, it's amazing how quickly nature can move to reclaim a patch of dirt once human hands quit messing with it. Twiggy little shrubs and trees now outline the infield, and weeds have completely overtaken the base paths.
The Little Rock Zoo talked about turning the property into an elephant exhibit. Forget the elephants. Bring in the goats.
In the pitch black of 6 p.m., as The Observer was driving home on the first Monday of the beginning of Real Time, as opposed to Daylight Saving Time, we saw a man in shorts and a T-shirt mowing his front yard with a self-propelled, non-motorized push mower. We almost doubled back to ask if we could sign up for his newsletter. What a protest! Screw the season, the oppressive dark and, for added bonus, gas-powered mowers! Tomorrow, after work, in that spirit, we're filling up the backyard baby pool and lounging with fruity drinks. Or at least watching something sunny on TV.
We attended a fashion show recently where models of all ages — including “America's Top Model” Furonda (a Stuttgart native) — strutted the stuff of four local designers. On stage, which was in the middle of a blocked-off Kavanaugh Boulevard, they preened and pranced and looked real good. But their backstage antics, projected onto a giant white screen at the rear of the stage, were more entertaining to the less fashion-conscious. Elephant trunks, yoga, pirouettes, James Bond with a gun — the creativity abounded. Our favorite? Seductive bunny ears. We thought we'd seen it all.
The Observer chased the Arkansas Symphony quartets from the galleries they were playing in Friday night. We walked in, they walked out. We're not positive that it was our presence exactly, though we can be louder than a stringed instrument sometimes, which could depress a tuxy cellist.
They fled the HAM as we entered. All those quilts would have muffled them anyway, but still. Then, at the Cox Creative Center, they were getting on the elevator as we got out at the second floor. Such a shame.
The live music gone, the gallery piped in new music over its speakers. Instantly, the 2nd Friday Art Night stragglers we found ourselves among put their hands to their ears and did their best impression of Munch's “The Scream.” Our own bellow would have been preferable to what was played as the backdrop to the artwork: A vintage Woody Woodpecker song, with several soaring — and piercing — choruses of “ha-ha-ha-HA-ha, ha-ha-ha-HA-ha.” At home, after a few drinks, great. In a brick-walled gallery — unh-unh-unh-UNH-unh.
Besides, everybody knows Woody Woodpecker didn't say “ha-ha-ha” etc. He said “kent! kent!”
At least Debbie Pelley isn't running for anything.( probably proslyetizing those communist bike trails),
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