Non-Fiction: Pat Sajak's Personal Website

Alright, I need to put the fiction on hold for a moment. I have information that I feel should be shared. It is publicly available, but I don't know if it has been publicized properly. I hadn't heard of it until last night. Those of you who know may have already guessed. I speak of patsajak.com.

Yes, that's the personal website of this guy:

I have long had a minor fascination with Pat Sajak. In my few moments of seeing him in the last 5 or so years, he seems to have moved to a stage of charming jadedness. He has hosted my generation's prototype of the vapid gameshow for as long as anyone can remember. In my childhood memories he is emotionally involved in the plight of his contestants, living a muted version of what they are going through. I don't know if that's accurate, but it's what I remember.

Now he seems detached from and bemused by the action around him. His hysterical contestants are like puppy dogs who, if you let them get their crazies out, should calm down eventually. The moment of modern Pat Sajak that has stuck with me happened near the conclusion of yet another episode of Wheel of Fortune. The game had ended for another day, and as they went to one last commercial break, Pat kept us watching with this line:

"Don't go anywhere, Vanna and I have something moderately amusing to show you when you get back."

Emphasis mine. Honesty in marketing. That gets big points from me.

Now on to the man's personal website. We open up to a photo of Pat in a director's chair, wearing a suit, one hand casually thoughtful on his chin. We are greeted with a witty message and a menu to choose from. We have "About" "From Pat" "Media" "Projects" and, I can barely wait for this part "Other Interests"

In About we get a timeline of Pat's life. This includes his career in radio and tv, some military service, a still-going marriage, and frequent references to his good looks. In "From Pat" we learn of some theatrical side projects Pat has done, as well as a discussion of how Pat likes to write political commentary for several websites. He has a short, light-hearted discussion of the standard flamethrowing that happens in the comments section of every political article, which includes this gem:

"There’s also often some version of, “Why do I care what a stupid TV game show host thinks?” Well, I find it hard to argue with that question, but it leads me to this question: Why do those people bother reading what a stupid game show host thinks before they decide he’s too stupid to care what he thinks?"

Excellent point, Pat. If these people were really dismissing your opinions because you're a game show host, they would have done so before reading the article. It is, as you rightly point out, your opinions they are dismissing. Glad to have that cleared up.

Moving on to "Projects," we find our friend Mr. Sajak is quite the entrepreneur. Just a TV game show host? Hardly. The man has a broadcasting company, a record label, a stake in a minor league baseball league and a company, Big City Deals, that seems to be an attempt at Groupon for the Wheel of Fortune watching demographic. Big City Deals is currently defunct, but promises to come back bigger and better. The broadcasting company produces two radio stations. While I have not listened to either, I encourage you to check out WNAV's hilariously busy website. Let your eyes feast on 18 different small-type, auto-scrolling menus. It's not about how you say it, it's how much you can say in a small space with as many unnecessarily moving elements as possible. The only thing missing: site fish tank. It really ties the page together.

As for Bojak Records, it exists entirely to produce the work of Jude Johnstone, an airy female singer-songwriter. [Insert speculation about affairs and blackmail]. Ms. Johnstone is currently touring the Southwest. If anyone goes and sees her, please let me know what you think. I'm intensely curious.

My readers, once in a while culture, circumstance and the English language come together to create a sort of absurd perfection. Something you never would have thought of on your own, but once introduced, it contains the sublime and the ridiculous like perfectly cut puzzle pieces in an otherwise sloppy world. 

What I refer to is a passage you can find under the tab for the Anne Arundel Medical Center under the tab for Pat's "Other Interests." The passage is this: 

"The Breast Center—where the latest technology and highest level of care are geared to the physical, mental and spiritual needs of each patient—was born in the Sajak Pavilion."

Allow me to distill this down to its essentials: the Breast Center was born in the Sajak Pavilion. It goes on to say that it has gotten so large it will be moving into a new home soon. It doesn't get much better than that folks.

Do you like hyperbole? Then you will love this sentence:

"It’s a hard to imagine a more uplifting experience than visiting George Washington’s Mount Vernon Estate and Gardens in Virginia."

After reading that sentence, I immediately claimed that I could think of 100 in one minute and at least ten that happened today. My buddy Keith said. "So could I. Easy. And it wasn't even that good a day."

The last thing I need (NEED) to tell you about are Pat's puzzles. I enjoy a good puzzle, and because Sajak hosts a puzzle show, this could be... no, wait, never mind. They are the traditional type of puzzle in which one assembles pieces to form a picture. The pictures we have to choose from are all, what else, photos of Pat Sajak. There are nine to choose from. In the second one, he's passed out drunk. Because you can choose any of three levels for each puzzle, that's 27 Pat Sajak puzzles to occupy yourself with. I've done two. For the first one, I completed it and nothing happened on the page to acknowledge my achievement. Even the timer kept running. The second time, however, I was rewarded with this message in all caps which I will reprint verbatim: 

"IT'S NEW RECORD! YOUR TIME IS 1:48. YOU WON FIRST TIME! TRY AGAIN?" 

I can't escape the idea, speculative as it is, that Sajak always saw a greater trajectory for himself. That his career would be big, meaningful, powerful. That Wheel of Fortune would be a stepping stone, not a plateau, which despite his intense efforts, he can never really escape.

Pre-Game Part 1

Jerry Manuel sat in his office with socks on his hands.

"It's working," he said to Warthen and Shines. Shines nodded.

"I never took you for the superstitious type, Jerry," said Warthen.

"Aren't," said Jerry. "Razor, did we get our latest coconut shipment in?"

"We have more cocos than you can imagine."

"I'm imagining a field," said Jerry, leaning back. "The thing is just covered in coconuts. I mean covered. I can't count them all, but gee it's probably in the thousands. Are you saying we have more than that, because that's how many I can imagine at one time."

Razor nodded.

"Dan, can you imagine more cocos than I just did?"

Warthen shook his head.

The door opened and Frenchy popped his head in. "Uh, boss- bosses I mean, do you still want us all waiting here in silence for you to come out? It's been eight minutes, which is a long time to wait in silence."

"Is it though?" asked Razor. To that Frenchy had no answer. So he closed the door and joined the rest of the players, not speaking, or doing anything. Just waiting.

The West

To keep all you vampires satisfied another day, here are my soul-bearing thoughts from the beginning of the year about the N.L. West. WARNING: Reading this will take a minute or two, and in that time, anything can happen. The world might disassemble and reform by the time you're done. In some sense, it definitely will. Just sayin.

1. The Rockies

It's time for all good cows to come to the aid of their pasture. It was a Tuesday and everyone was one day deader than they were on Monday, but also one day more alive. Isn't it over when the bat turns back into a person? Wait, were they vampires all along? Bring me the head of whoever said play fair. Rogue state, rogue house, rogue the x-man, by which I mean the x-lady.

2. The Dodgers

They are good, and yet, nope. The problem is L.A. That city is a problem. Anything that stays there long enough is likely to reflect the problem. That's why the Dodgers won't win the division this year.

3. Snakes on a plane!

These guys spin and slither. They will bite you. Isn't it weird how some teams are vastly better than others, but it is extremely rare for someone to be outside the 40-60% range of wins and losses. No one really approaches an outsider's idea of dominance. Snakes!

4. The Giants

Unfortunately, size only helps you so much in baseball, and then, after that point, it starts making it more difficult. Even the largest bats allowed are so small as to be unwieldy in your fingers. While you need few steps to get between bases, your bulk makes you lumber. You are very easy to tag. Gotta love the Freak though. I mean that guy is just awesome. And small. I've heard he looks 14 with his shirt off. I've heard that Pablo Sandoval is actually a panda, but it's just a rumor.

5. The Padres

While they're not that good, they can still be the Ringo Starr of this band. If the Beatles were the N.L. West, the Padres would be Ringo, the Dodgers Paul, the Rockies John, the Diamondbacks George and the Giants would be Billy Shears. Bud Selig would be Yoko Ono, the Cardinals would be Mick Jagger, the Brewers Keith Richards and the Rays would be the Velvet Underground. The thing is, I doubt that this era of baseball can live up to that era of music because most things don't.

The Mets Ponder Some Post-Manuel Options

On the 100th floor of the Met Building in Brooklyn Heights, Fred Wilpon lays out a series of photos: his potential replacements, should they fire Jerry Manuel. Omar Minaya looks at them with consternation.

"The Dalai Lama?"

"Think of the calm presence, he'd bring to the clubhouse! Wright would get centered and stop swinging at everything. I really feel he'd fill a spiritual void."

"I'm not sure he's available, Mr. Wilpon."

"Are you sure? Have you made any calls?"

"Not on him, no."

"Damnit Omar, it's called due diligence."

"I'll get right on it. Umm... who's this?"

"Ever watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

"The movie?"

"Not the damn movie, the show! It was on for like seven seasons! They even did a spinoff! Okay, how about Firefly. Damn good show. Space cowboys!"

"Mr. Wilpon, how is this-"

"Joss Wheedon! The man's a creative genius! What if we recreated the whole genre of baseball? What if that was my legacy?"

"The genre of-"

"Omar, there's something called a box, and sometimes it helps to think outside of it. Get some damn fresh air."

"That's true boss. So this next one, is he a Japanese manager?"

"Not just a manager, the former Prime Minister! Junichiro Koizumi! Why does Seattle have to have all the Ichiros? Am I right or am I right?"

"He may be looking for work."

"Damn right he is Omar, give the man a call."

"Does he speak English?"

"Hell if I know. You'll find that out when he picks up the damn phone."

"Wally Backman?"

"I like Wally. Got a raw deal in Arizona."

"He lives down the block. I'll go say hi."

"Good man Omar. Cal the others too."

"Umm... yes, Mr. Wilpon.

Wright vs. the Swamp Monster

Wright walked down the streets of Atlanta, headphones pumping Jay-Z's Empire State of Mind, coconut in one hand, clenched fist in the other. He gave pedestrians the Wright Eye as they passed. Most failed to notice until,

"Hey! You're Wright, right?"

"That's Wright."

It was some slappy ass bro dawg strutting with his homies. Not gonna cut it.

"You suck. You like strikeout every time."

Wright stopped. Flexed his pecs. This wasn't Wright. No one challenged him like this. He was going to have to regulate.

"Hey kid, what do you know about sucking? Nothing, that's what. Because you aren't even at a level where sucking even comes into play. You are like a forgotten mollusk, swept up on to the beach. Alone. Sun-bleached. Exhausted in ways your species rarely feels."

What would surely have followed is a petty verbal altercation, consisting of yelled insults and stale banter. Perhaps Wright would have gotten into the dude's face, and the dude, perhaps feeling emboldened by several less than bold beers would push him away with the tips of his fingers. There may have even been some pushing and shoving between Wright and the dude's homies.

All of this and more may have happened, had a swamp monster not emerged from the sewer, placing its disghusting, oozy hand-paw-fin on the street and pulling itself out of a grate. The bro dawgs shrieked like school girls. School girls emitted sounds heard only by the nearby dogs and bats, and also the swamp monster who was both part dog and part bat. Truant girls thought the swamp monster was cool, and went to an expensive store to spend their parents' money on clothes that would make them look like the swamp monster.  The phrase "swamp monster" was a trending topic on twitter. A local CNN reporter happened to be nearby, and she immediately produced a story about how David Wright just got a new haircut. Wolf Blitzer's interview with the King of the Ant Queens was interrupted so that the news could be delivered.

We cut back to David Wright and the swamp monster as he is chugging the remains of his coconut and a bat boy is handing him his favorite bat.

"I have come to steal your Wrightness, so that I may rule the underworld!" cried the monster.

"You're a Wright bastard!" Wright retorted. The swamp monster lunged, but Wright anticipated this and stepped out of the way. One of the bros got touched by the swamp monster and was immediately covered in glug. This meant that he would always smell a little swampy, which was bad, but also that some of the truant girls now thought he was cute, which was good.

Back and forth went Wright and the swamp monster, the monster lunging and spreading slime everywhere, Wright swinging his bat wildly.

"Your hair is all wrong! Your bat is wrong too!" Wright shouted back retorts of his own ("your eyesight is poor! you do badly on standardized tests!") but with each "wrong" the swamp monster hurled at him, David could feel his Wrightness sapping. He must fight back, but how?

A crowd had gathered around, and without meaning to, he locked eyes with a man, wearing a suit, holding a mop and watching the scene. An idea struck Wright. "Ask me a question," he said to the man.

"Ummm... what's your name?"

"WRIGHT! ANOTHER!"

"Okay... what did you have for breakfast this morning?"

"WRIGHT FUEL! AGAIN!"

"Err... what can we do about inflation and the national debt?"

"WRIGHT TO YOUR SENATOR!"

A little boy wearing a newspaper cap, and holding what looked to be a stack of newspapers but was actually just some stuff he was going to throw away, caught on with the game. "What hand am I holding up?" he chirped, holding up his

"WRIGHT HAND!" Wright was frothing at the mouth now.

"What was the New Kids on the Block's biggest hit?"

"The WRIGHT STUFF!"

"Who is the most famous aviator?"

"Amelia 'WRIGHTEOUS BABE' Earhart."

Then, in one of those perfect moments that occasionally graces our fair planet, a baseball flew out of the crowd. Silence enveloped the scene and everything seemed to play out in slow motion. It fluttered over the swamp monster, its bulging eyes tracking it, but unable to do anything about it. The facial expressions of the crowd froze in a melange of shock, awe and indifference. Only the ball, delicately flying, innocent to the commotion around it, only the ball moved at normal speed.

Only the ball and Wright. He saw his pitch. He squared it up. He kicked his leg.

He screamed "WRIGHT NOW!" as he swung and connected with the ball with a mighty crack. It lazered into the swamp monster's stomach and it tumbled over backwards into the sewer grate, down into the depths, landing down below with a splash. As he tumbled, he cried, "wrrroooooonnnnggg."

With the splash of the swamp monster, the spell was broken and all of a sudden everyone went back to what they were doing before any of this began. Walks resumed, as did conversations, errands, trains of thought and  trains of people. The only people who were affected by it all were brosef and his mishmash hooligans.

"Hey man, I take it back. You don't suck. You come through when it really counts."

"That's Wright," said Wright with a satisfied smile.

"You wanna, like play some X-Box with us. That's where we were headed before, y'know..."

"WRIGHT ON!"

They went off together, the dudes feeding David questions with right in the answer, and Wright hitting them back the way only he could. The camera pans down to the boy in the newspaper cap who had been diligently recording every detail on the papers he was holding. He looks straight into the camera, straight at us, with just the hint of a smile on the corners of his mouth...

and winked.

The Madness of Kings Wilpons

Jerry Manuel had a chill in his bones. He was going to a place he didn't like, that he never went to voluntarily, though he lived in the same building. The first time it was a thrill, the surge of power he felt, the importance, but now, as he rode the creaky elevator up to the 100th floor, he couldn't help wondering if his job would be intact when he went back down.

A flickering fire greeted his eyes as he opened the door. The Wilpons always kept a raging fire in a pit on the floor burning constantly. Willie Randolph had advised Jerry not to question the safety of this. In fact, it was unwise to question anything the Wilpons did unless it was absolutely necessary. Fred and Jeff were brash and ruthless rulers. Scott Kazmir was traded because Fred had caught wind on an incident in which Kazmir, when asked if he would like his phnung pak mild, medium or hot, replied, "Not spicy at all." "The weakness!" shouted Wilpon to his newspaper, sitting alone at a beach resort in the Caiman Islands. "The fear of fire! This is no Met!" Minutes later, Jim Duquette was browbeaten into trading Kazmir for someone who can handle a "Goddamn fistful of habaneros."

Jerry Manuel had trained himself, somewhat painfully, to endure the stupid sauce at San Loco tacos in light of this story.
As was customary when coming to the office. Omar Minaya came to greet Jerry, then blindfold him. Jerry then walked toward the raging fire until he heard a Wilpon say "Stop!" As was typical in these situations, Jerry had not seen either Wilpon. It was presumed that they were just behind the fire, hidden by the smoke and flame, but what if they weren't? What if they were out of town? What if they intended to fire him by... firing him?

He stepped forward, feeling the licks of heat more intensely with every inch forward. He told himself to walk confidently. The Wilpons loathed unconfidence. Kris Benson had been shipped out, not so much because of his provacative wife, but because he "Acts like he's the team's goddamn chimney-sweep."
Another step. Jerry couldn't hear another human around. They usually stopped him by now. This wasn't good. He began to strategize what he would do if he felt the fire actually touch him and there still had been no call to stop. Would he play it safe and back up, perhaps roll around on the floor for good measure? Or would it be better to play aggressive, charge right through the fire, go with his momentum and seize the advantage over the Wilpons, assuming they were actually there? He preferred the second option, with the caveat that it was much more likely to kill him.
He advanced again, and now, surely the flame was very close. It was hot on his torso, and he even thought his shoes might be melting. One more step, and it might be time to jump. Might be time to leap through the flame and show Fred and Jeff and Omar who the real boss is. He stepped again, and still no call. Alright, if that's how it's going to be, the next step would launch him forward, careening through the flame, through death or triumph, let the best-
"STOP!"
Holy crap that was scary. Yet Jerry was almost disappointed. The blindfold was removed. He wasn't actually that close to the flame. The lunge he had been about to make would have ended him right in the middle of it. Whoa.
"It's time Jerry." Jeff's voice always sounded improbably high, no matter how many times Jerry heard it.
"Please Mr. Wilpon! I can turn this ship around! We ran out of coconuts in Florida! What were we supposed to do? I can get these boys to the promised land!"
"We're not firing you," said Jeff. Out of the corner of his eye, Jerry caught Omar's surprise at this last statement. Omar quietly stashed away some documents he had been holding.
"No," said Wilpon. "It's time for him." He walked straight through the fire, not seeming to notice it at all. He held a picture of a Met, mid-swing in his hand.
"H-he's not ready," stammered Jerry.
"I DON'T CARE" roared Wilpon. Wilpons actually, because now there were two of them, Fred and Jeff standing side by side. They had screamed the same words in unison. "Fetch him," they said.

--To be continued--