Where I've been and Ted Williams's Head

Sorry I haven't been blogging lately. The holidays are always a special time of year for me and Claire, and it's been party after party for me. We've been catching up with old friends, making new ones, and all that crap.

For example, today, Col. Ruppert and I had our annual get-together to commemorate when he bought me from those goddamn Red Sox and brought me to the place I was meant to be. I mean, Boston? Come on. Baltimore, where I was born and made my professional debut? A one-horse town.

But New York! New York made me, and I made New York. Sure, I was a superstar ballplayer in Boston, pitching and hitting and winning 3 World's Series championships. But could I find a decent whorehouse there with more than three smokin' dames? Not even.

New York was where the action was, and is. The whorehouses there were stocked, I mean STOCKED, with beauties. I could go a whole season and never have the same dame twice. Man, those were good times.

Anyhoo, Ruppert and I were talkin' about the old days a little (unlike me, he had a favorite dame, whereas I liked to play the field; turns out, his dame was one of my favorites, too. Life is full of coincidences). And Ruppert says to me, "George, why haven't you ever invited Ted Williams's head to a party? I was talking with it, I mean with him the other day and it--he is hurt that you haven't made an effort to get to know him--it--him."

I says, "Well that's the problem right there, Jake. You don't even know if it's a he or an it! Freaks me out."

He goes, "It's a he, George. And he's a very good guy. Cantankerous as all get out, but you two should have a lot in common. Like hitting and stuff. And Boston."

"Dames too?"

"Probably."

Well, he's probably right about inviting him over. Sometimes, when I'm thinking about baseball and the old days, and what happened in the game after I retired, I do think about ol' Teddy Ballgame, and I start to thinking, "I should invite him over. I hear he's an interesting guy."

And then I remember, But he's a goddamn severed head! And I shiver a little and then put it out of my mind.

But now I got the ol' colonel telling me I should make the effort, and so I promise I will. Next chance I get, I'm gonna invite Ted Williams's severed head over for a party. Should be interesting. Stay tuned for that one.

Wondering what to get me for Christmas?

I know it's a big topic of conversation on the interwebs right now, so I thought I'd make it easy for you by providing some ideas.

Rawlings Baseball Glove Leather Briefcase. Note: Gloveoleum is not included, but I'll need that, too. Please don't forget.

The Genuine Lost In Space B-9 Robot. A great deal if I ever saw one.

Snuggie. Isn't it what everybody's getting this year?

Goatee Saver. Sure, I still have a goatee. And I like to keep it neat. Yes, I know it was big in the 1990s and not so much today. So what, I still like it. STFU.

Comfort Wipe. I wish they had this when I was alive.

Yankees wall logo. I can't believe these haven't sold out yet. What are you waiting for, people!

That's about it. Contact me directly to find out where to ship these puppies.

UPDATE:

Claire could use one of these. I'm kind of afraid to discuss it further, you'll just have to click.

Just askin'

I've got a question for all you right-wing religious types who are praying against healthcare reform: If God didn't do anything about Hitler, why the f--- would He get involved with the U.S. Congress?

Until you can answer that question logically, please STFU.

I don't see the problem here.

Sex for World Series tickets is against the law? What country are we living in, communist Russia?

This story combines all my favorite pastimes. I have a Google Alert for Susan Finkelstein.

What it's like out here

I've gotten emails lately asking what it's like "out here" as a ghost. It's really hard to explain, but I ran into Moe Berg recently, and this is how he described it:

Imagine a world in which time travels not just forward, but in all directions simultaneously. That's what it's like out here.

Does that blow your f---ing mind? It should. It really should.

Where are the Yankees?

A few huge deals in baseball going on, and the Yankees are nowhere to be found:

- Holy crap: Cliff Lee to the Mariners, Roy Halladay to the Phillies, prospects to the Blue Jays. How did you miss out on that one, Cashman?

- Hideki Matsui signs with the Angels for $6.5 million. WTF? We just let our World Series MVP leave for pocket change?

- John Lackey signs with the Red Sox. He had pinstripes all over him! Or so I thought.

- A-Rod and Kate Hudson break up. I heard she's being farmed out to Jason Bay in an effort to get him to sign with the Yankees.

Paging Brian Cashman: Get your head out of your ass! Crap is happening all around you and what are you doing?

This video finally explains the Internet

Of course, I know what the Internet is, but I've gotten tired of explaining it to my old teammates. Finally there's a video that explains it in terms those old-timers can understand.

Check it out:

Sorry, Royals fans

Back around the time when I played, Kansas City was a minor league town. They had a team called the Blues who became a farm club of the Yankees just after I retired. Every few years they used to send us a player or two -- the best being Phil Rizzuto -- and we would politely thank them and allow them to continue playing baseball.

In the 1950s, Kansas City played home to the old Philadelphia A's. The Kansas City A's truly sucked, but they did perform a good public service: they helped keep the Yankees winning by giving us Roger Maris and a couple other guys, basically in exchange for meal money.

For a while in the 1970s and 1980s, the Royals actually got good, but that was a lifetime ago. Today, in spite of the fact that they have the best pitcher in baseball, they suck again.

But with free agency, any team can get better fast, right? Sure, any team that's not named the Royals. Last week, they reached a new level of desperation by signing a 35 year old catcher who hasn't had a good season in a decade to be their new starter. If they win 60 games in 2010 it'll be a miracle.

The cycle is nearing completion. Now all that's left is for Kansas City to return to its rightful place as a farm team for the Yankees.

Zack Greinke is gonna look great in pinstripes.

I'm getting tired of this

How lazy does a sportswriter have to be to invoke my name when talking about food and fat in baseball?

We get it, ok? I was big boned and some pictures aren't as flattering to my figure as they could have been. But I was not fat and I ate a healthy diet for my time. Beer has plenty of natural ingredients, pie has fruit and vitamins, hot dogs have protein. And some eggheads have even figured out that fat is good for brain development!

You wanna see fat ballplayers, I'll show you fat ballplayers. But leave me the hell out of it.

Reader Mail: Did I really call my shot?

Reader MK from Des Moines, Iowa, asks the question on everyone's mind: "Did you really call your shot in the 1932 World Series?"

If you're lazy and tired and don't want to read on, here's my answer: Hell yes.

The setup: In Game 3 of the 1932 World Series, I came to the plate against Charlie Root of the Cubs. I had already homered once in the game, but I had also flied out to right, and now the Cubs bench started to razz me.

I should tell you, as with most of the 5,525 outs (regular season) I made in my career, that flyout had been 95% intentional. It was strategic. I wanted Root to think he could keep me off balance, so that in a crucial situation I could whallop his fastball for a really big blast.

Well, I got my chance again in the 5th. As I said, I was hearing a lot of abuse from the Cubs bench. I can't really repeat what they were saying here, just use your imagination.

Here's what happened. With one strike on me, I pointed once into the Cubs dugout and told them to "F--k off." Then I showed Root my middle finger and told him to pitch to me.

I let the pitch go by for a called strike, Casey at the Bat style. (Drama is my middle name.) Then I pointed again, this time to center field. I didn't have to say anything because everybody knew what I meant.

And you know what happened next. My second home run of the game, and the rest is history.

Now, some people doubt my claim, but come on, would I make up a story like that?

Good luck with that, David Stern

So David Stern, let me get this straight. You have a disgraced former referee who is lobbing charges left and right about bad officiating, fixed games, gambling, and the mob. These charges, written in a new book, seem to confirm what every NBA fan knows to be true: that some referees give star players preferential treatment and influence games to favor large-market teams in playoff series. He even has lots of specific, checkable details.

And, Mr. David Stern, commissioner of the NBA, fancy businessman, supposedly smart guy, your response is: "[Our] review revealed that the NBA's core values of neutrality and accountability were not compromised by anyone other than Mr. Donaghy."

Yeah sure, that's gonna fly.

Back when I played, the lords of baseball tried to sweep the Black Sox scandal under the rug, but it didn't work and instead they were forced to bring in a commissioner who completely took away all their power.

Lucky for them, I came along. I revolutionized hitting, put asses back in the seats, and saved the game. You may have heard something about that before.

Irregardless of whether everything Donagy says in his book is true -- and some eggheads have already poked holes in some of his claims -- the NBA is going to have to do better than, "We looked into it and everything's fine. Nothing to see here, move along."

Otherwise, they'll need a savior for their little sport, and I'm already dead.

Back to baseball

Hey loyal readers, I'm sorry for getting so off topic lately. That Twilight stuff just really got to me. The only Bella we had back in the day was Bella Lugosi, and the modern Bella is much hotter. (Is she 18? I hope so.)

I chatted with Lou yesterday, and he was telling me that while I was out gallivanting with Vlad the Impaler, there was some actual news about my Yankees: They picked up some kid named Curt Granderson in a three-way deal with Arizona and Detroit.

First of all, I love three-way deals. In fact, I love anything to do with three ways. And second, while I don't know anything about Granderson in particular, I can say he just LOOKS like a ballplayer. I looked him up, though, and his numbers are awesome. He's gonna fit in perfectly in New York.

But you know how I know the trade is going to work out great for my boys: Because Cobb is pissed. He texted this to the GM of the Tigers, Dave Dombrowski: "WTF Dombrowski? Whyd u trad my sucesor? And why the Yanks? I hat the f-ing Yankes. Im gonna haunt u 4ever, dooshbag."

So to recap: My boys got better. Cobb's boys got worse. What a great day.

My meeting with Vlad the Impaler

So I was telling you about my crazy meeting with the original vampire, Vlad the Impaler, in order to get his take on the whole vampire craze. The reason that I'm so interested is because of the movie "The Twilight Saga: New Moon," starring Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart and based on the novel by Stephenie Meyer.

So I was in the foyer of his castle when one of his minions called me back to meet the Impaler, which is what they call him, strangely. Nobody calls him Vlad.

The Impaler was waiting for me on his throne, wearing a pinstripe three-piece suite and a gold crown. To his left was this lady in a business suit, who introduced herself as Scarlett, his public relations agent. To his right was a massive rhino on a leash, evidently his pet. The Impaler was petting him. I tried not to seem surprised.

"Welcome, Mr. Ruth," he said finally. "I understand you have some questions for me." He drew out that last word so it sounded like "meeeee."

"I sure do, Impaler."

"Many people do." Dooooo. "Please ask them. I have another appointment that I must not miss."

Well that got me curious, but I put it out of my head.

"Impaler, what do you make of the vampire craze? The 'Twilight Saga' seems to be sweeping the world."

"Well of course I'm flattered by all the attention. When I started impaling and torturing and drinking blood, I had no idea I was going to be starting a worldwide phenomenon." He looked over my head into the distance, appearing wistful. "Those were good times."

"So it's true?" I asked. "All the stuff they've said about you?"

"Oh yes. And they don't even know the half of it. I was, pardon the expression, a badass. Nobody f---ed with me. It hasn't changed."

I changed the subject. "What's with the rhino?"

Scarlet interrupted. "DON'T ask about the rhino," she scolded.

"OK. Impaler, you're not really a vampire, are you?"

"Of course not. Everybody asks that. I was a human, just like you. I just loved life and had big appetites for everything. And I had kind of a hard life. My dad was nicknamed Vlad the Dragon, which gives you some idea of what I went through as a kid."

"Me too! I also had a hard childhood and big appetites for life."

Impaler didn't seem impressed that we had something in common.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" said the Impaler.

I was a little intimidated. He didn't have any enemies impaled on spikes, least not that I could see, but still. I got the chills and decided to get out of there.

"No, I guess that's it."

He turned to Scarlet, who slid out of her chair and handed me something. It was an ornamental pen with a Vlad the Impaler logo.

"Would you like to have your picture taken with the Impaler?" she asked.

"Um no thank you."

"Then I think it's time to go. I will show you out."

I couldn't get out of there fast enough. But on my way out, I saw his next appointment. It was Kenesaw Mountain Landis. Figures.

Meet my new BFF. (Not really.)

So you know how I watched and kinda liked The Twilight Saga: New Moon, starring Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart and based on the novel by Stephenie Meyer? Of course, not everybody shares my opinion, but I'm sticking by it.

Anyhoo, since I'm out here and you're out there, I thought I'd go the extra mile for you and meet up with the person who started this whole vampire craze to begin with. Not Bram Stoker, the guy who wrote the first Dracula book, although that might have been a good idea. I might try that next.

No, I'm talking the original vampire, Vlad the Impaler.

Talk about a surreal experience. First of all, just getting an appointment with him was a tough. He has a whole crew of minions and henchmen who shield him from contact with regular people. Usually the only way to get into see him is if he asks to see you. And I didn't know anyone who knows him directly, but you know, six degrees of separation and all that, and I finally found a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. You get the picture.

I tell you, I had to pull every string I could pull. The Babe Ruth name doesn't hold much sway in Transylvania. But finally it turns out that one of his minions is sleeping with a dame whose father once saw me play, and I got in.

I got to the castle just as lunch was ending.*

*I found out later that he hosts a weekly lunch for friends and friends of friends. Check out who was leaving just as I was arriving:

- Rasputin
- Pol Pot
- Kenneth Lay
- Lizzie Borden
- Some guy from Romania, Nikolai Chowchesku

Borden just wouldn't leave. She was clearly smitten with ol' Vlad. You could tell he was going to invite her back later that night.

Finally it was my turn. I was sitting on a bench in the foyer of his castle when a goon called out my name and invited me back to see Vlad.

>>To be continued tomorrow.

My thoughts on Tiger Woods

In his book about me, The Big Bam, Leigh Montville tells a pretty funny story. The Yanks along with the newspaper writers were on a train between cities when all of a sudden, I burst through a door, completely buck naked, running as fast as I could down the aisle. Seconds later, a crazed, screaming woman carrying a knife burst through the door, chasing and threatening me. The writers saw all of this, then returned to their poker games. They never mentioned it in any reports.

Now honestly, for most people, if they were chased by a knife-wielding crazy woman through a train car, that would be something they'd remember forever. It would be seared into their brains. Me, I don't remember this specific incident. I don't dispute that it happened, but man, a lot of crap happened to me and this has a ring of truth. It's truthy, if nothing else.

This Tiger Woods crap that's going on right now made me think of that story and some of the other stuff I went through back in the day. I didn't get to make all the millions that he's making, but those millions come with a price: privacy. When I had my fun with the ladies, I didn't have to deal with TV cameras parked outside my compound and 24/7 news channels covering every detail. And I sure didn't have to issue an "apology" on my website.

When I left a whorehouse, for example, I just had to look both ways and turn my collar up. If somebody recognized me, they said "Hi Babe. Hit one for me tonight, will ya?" and flashed the OK sign. They didn't bring their cameras and sell a picture to the New York Evening Post. You know why they didn't spill it? First of all, because nobody gave a crap about it back then. I wasn't a politician who pretended to be a family man. I was a ballplayer.

Mostly, though, the reason they didn't is because those schmoes who saw me on the street liked me because I wasn't a total asshole to them. I smiled and chatted and signed autographs and visited sick kids and all that stuff. I didn't do it because a PR flack told me. I did it because I enjoyed it. And so people who saw me in, um, compromising positions never ratted me out.

So my advice to Tiger would be this: Be a nice, friendly, approachable guy. Talk to your fans. Ask them how they're doing. Of course, you have to mean it, because they can see right through BS. I don't know if Tiger is capable of authenticity at this point.

If he can't do that, then there's an alternative: My compadre Fake Steve Jobs has his own advice for Tiger. Not quite as endearing as my idea, but it works too.

What is Steve Buckley talking about?

Steve Buckley is a columnist for the Boston Herald, and he's written an article about how hard it is to be Tiger Woods. But Buckley is mistaken on one key point:

Woods is one of the best-known, most instantly recognizable athletes in sports history (Babe Ruth is right up there, but he didn’t have his own Web site).

Hey Buckley, how 'bout a little research here? I've got a website!

RIP Tommy Henrich

It's always a bittersweet time for me when an old Yankee passes away. On the one hand, he's gone and his family and friends will miss him, of course. But on the other hand, Yankee alumni parties out here get a little bigger and a little more fun.

Though I never played with him, I got to know Tommy Henrich a little in the late '30s and '40s. Great guy. Known as Old Reliable because he always seemed to get the clutch hit when we needed it. Least that's what the story is, and that's what's going to be repeated ad nauseum in the next few days.

He's one of those guys who probably would be in the Hall of Fame if not for World War II. He missed three prime years, and we'll never know what he would have done. He had his best year at age 35, but then back injuries ended his career a couple years later.

So maybe it was the back injuries that kept him out of the Hall and not World War II. Who knows.

Anyway, my condolences to Henrich's family and friends.

Tommy, if you're reading, we've got a weekly Yankees-only poker game coming up.