Temporary, possibly long term break from TTT's Facebook pages

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TINY TOWN TIMES COMES BACK TO ITS OWN SPACE, LITTE CHANGED ...

 

Well, that was interesting.

We used Facebook and vice versa to increase traffic to tinytowntimes and it didn't really work. We got a lot of attention but that wasn't the point.

Thing is, we got sloppy with the site, and sloppy with Facebook and the returns were negligible.

So this is just to let you know, you want to see tinytowntimes content, like pictures and so forth, this is the place.

The only place.

For now. I hope some of our new friends come by and that will great if they do. FB became a big obsessive time-suck and really hurt the  blog/website whatever it is you want to call this.

Here we are again, a little different than it ever wasn't.

– Franklin Crawford, Admin

 

 

Mail Box in the Sky: Slideshow, sky, recent sunsets ...

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Tiny Town Teaser No. 12, Vol. 7

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ACROSS

1. With 4 Across, 2010 Martin Sheen film
2. See 1 Across
3. Had wings?

DOWN

1. Eastern alternative, once
2. Ring-toss item?
3. Batter's asset
>>><<<
Degree of Difficulty: Turning back the hands of time ...
>>><<<
Sunset on Nov. 1, 2015 as viewed from N. Sunset Drive ... Franklin Crawford

Last Updated on Wednesday, 04 November 2015 06:45
 

The Mets Had to Get Beat the Day We Turn the Clocks Back

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Tiny Town, USA – You can't blame Obama for this one. Although there are some who will.

Why am I writing a sport thing for this page? That's easy: I'm awake and no one cares.

Me and the Mets go way back. I didn't follow them for most of this year and honestly, I stopped following sports and most world affairs ever since Pluto was declassified as a planet.

I was the kid with the only working transistor radio back in Miss Foran's Sixth Grade class when the hell was it?, and because the Miracle Mets were on the verge of winning the world series against the Baltimore Orioles, a team with such grandeur and elan, they could have a Boog and a Brooks at first and third respectively. That's a tough combo to beat.

But they didn't have Cleon, Tug or Kranepool.

I thought a lot about names and their power when I was a kid, and Boogs and Brooks, one scary, one cool, put the fear in me because I was a true Mets fan as a kid.

I grew up on Long Island and we had the Mets, Nets and the Jets. That was a nice thing. We also had the Knicks, but that was for the hardcore New Yorkers. A person born and raised on Long Island, especially in my time, is a curious amalgam of past and future. That's for some other blog.

This is about remembering two important Sports moments and one less important one involving the Mets: They all occurred without my witnessing the climactic activity on television. There is a fourth important Mets moment that is so convoluted it is a novella-in-progress. One in which the Mets are only a fact in a swirl of horror and revelation that ambushed my callow soul when I was fifteen and on a lot of drugs; there were undercover cops and ... whoa Nellie. I'll show it to you some time.

Miss Foran was a very disciplined teacher who tried her best to coax me over to the other side of my swampy intelligence by challenging me with work. She knew I had a learning problem and that generally, I was a troubled 11 year old. We were at odds, she and I. For the rest of my life, I would be at odds with people who tried to supervise me in an arrogant and insulting way. She didn't mean to patronize me because she was a decent person. However, anyone who'd met my Dad at a parent-teacher powwow anticipated for me a life in prison and possibly felt charged to alter my trajectory.

The point is, there was a near riot in the class as the big Mets game against the Orioles was taking place while we were imprisoned being force-fed whatever math it was that led to algebra and death by letters substituting as numbers. I'm not one of these people who are proud of their innumeracy: I am embarrassed by it. Being able to write never compensated for not being able to do my own taxes even with a computer and accountant. Not pertinent to this story. But you can't teach math to antsy kids whose home team might win the world series.

Miss Foran was human. She sensed the volatility in the room. Her best student, Richard Green, who would later be an editor at Newsday, served as her counsel. He pointed out that given the general state of the rowdies in the class, that perhaps allowing us some time to listen to the last few innings of the game was in everyone's best interest. He could speak like that at his tender age and I befriended him because he explained how a nuclear submarine worked and that made him one of those kids who was important to know. He allowed me to be his friend of sorts because he got picked on a lot and I defended him.

Miss Foran did something she probably never did before: She broke from protocol. But she wanted to know: How were we to hear the game?

That was my moment. That was when I pulled out my brother's Wards transistor radio. It wasn't the best, but the other boys who had likewise ferried in transistors had difficulties. To be fair, Miss Foran allowed us each to try our radios and one by one, the better equipped boys had some technological problem: Bad batteries sunk one of them; poor reception from the New York station killed the other  ... Then it was just me and my cheap Wards transistor. I turned on and tuned it in; static. But before I was defeated -- which meant it was back to math problems -- I begged to stand by the windows. Leaving one's seat without permission was a punishable offense. My request was granted.

There is a g-d and he was a Mets fan back in the day. I got beautiful reception by the window. Everyone cheered. We crowded around the little device and listened as the Mets survived the Boogs and Brooks and we went ape-shit.

I never thanked Miss Foran for that honor. I thank her now that it doesn't matter. She also should know I avoided prison, not that I didn't try -- and I don't mean violently, just, the Rockefeller Drug Laws were harsh (see Fourth Mets-related tale).

The other great Mets moment occurred when I was 27, living in Columbia University housing that belonged to my sweetheart's dad, a professor at CU.

I was alone. There was a radio. I kept turning it on and off as the Mets seemed on the verge of losing to the Boston Red Sox; I was looking for work and not having much luck and I didn't need to listen to that stuff.

Because I was a coward, I turned it off at the very moment that Bill Buckner made the fielding error heard around the world. If you don't know about it, it's in the history books. No sooner had the radio gone cold when I heard -- no, felt – an eruption of joy from 116th and Riverside Drive across the Hudson to Jersey, an exultation rising from the buildings and streets, normally quiet that time of night, rising lie a tide beyond the 14th floor where I say, suddenly happy and rejuvenated and full of praise.

The Mets were still in it! I could listen. I did and they went on to win the series.

The feeling on the subway the next day was of a grand party of unified souls who had witnessed a supernatural triumph. It was amazing to see the change a turn of luck like that had on an entire throng of people. It reminded me of pictures from old LIFE Magazines, The Allies Defeat the Nazis! Hitler Toppled! Dead! YAYAYAYAYYAYAY!

Tonight, my friend Petr shared the play-by-play over the computer as I watched the inevitable unfold on Internet box scores. The Royals. Damn them: They be good.

I've felt deep self-pity for home teams before; the day Patrick Ewing blew a finger roll that would've kept the Knicks alive against the Pacers in the 90s, caused me to quit following them for ten solid years.

That too, I heard on radio. But it was Spring and there would be time to lick wounds and recover if I was smart and didn't root for the Knicks for a long time.

The Mets got beat by a better team tonight, plain and simple. That's an honorable loss. And one I didn't have to watch on TV.

But they ought to have one for this simple reason: It is daylight saving time and the clocks went back this weekend. In the Northeast, that doesn't ever feel good.

We all needed something to feel good about.

I feel good about the Royals. I know people from Kansas. I don't know if they're baseball fans, but even if they aren't, they'll feel the current of triumph running through the collective corpus of Kansasia.

And now, sic transit gloria on Monday.

C. Penbroke Handy, filling in for the lost causes in The Admin's mind ...

 

 

 

Last Updated on Monday, 02 November 2015 14:55
 


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