Will the Hall Call or Was LaRussa a Juice-a?

Just 17 home runs shy of 600—still the rarefied realm of only Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, and Willie Mays in 2001—and owed $30 million on a contract extension, Mark McGwire received plaudits for limping away from baseball on his own terms. Hindered by bad knees, he still smashed 29 round-trippers in his swansong season, remaining a productive and popular player. Little did we know that McGwire’s exit was a less-than-virtuous getaway from the steroid scandal about to break—a lie that he lived for a decade, until finally confessing last year.

Now Tony LaRussa, still shaking confetti from his tawdry hair, stuns the baseball world by retiring days after his St. Louis Cardinals capture the World Series. A mere 35 managerial wins shy of the legendary John McGraw, LaRussa has carte rouge to rack up as many more victories in Cardinals red as he desires. On the cusp of cementing certified greatness, LaRussa’s retirement smacks of another quick getaway.

So far, no one has asked the question: Did LaRussa juice while managing? Let the numbers decide:

Third all-time in wins, with a whopping 2728, LaRussa piloted 5093 regular-season games over 33 seasons (each of the latter figures second most in baseball annals). In addition to three World Series titles, he won Manager of the Year four times, including the first award, in 1983, and most recently in 2002. That 19-year span of dominance in a major category is equaled only by Roger Clemens’ 18-year bookends between Cy Young Awards—and we all know how Clemens achieved his. Pacing dugouts for 5214 games (including playoffs) means, conservatively, that LaRussa paced for almost 47,000 innings. A younger man might manage such mileage, but half of LaRussa’s managerial career occurred after age fifty. As the oft-recited baseball maxim states: the first thing to go is the legs—so is anyone buying that LaRussa logged so many innings on his feet without artificial help?

Like McGwire and Barry Bonds, whose bodies ballooned during the steroid era, LaRussa began tipping the scales (albeit less dramatically). His 1981 Fleer baseball card, issued three years into his managerial career, listed LaRussa at 185 lb; however, Baseball Almanac currently denotes him at 190 lb. Sure, this shocking transformation of his body could result from weightlifting—as asserted the unrepentant Bonds—but let’s not kid ourselves.

And is not batting the pitcher eighth—an occasional LaRussa strategy—the reasoning of a mind muddled by performance-enhancing chemicals?

On the numbers, LaRussa was a good manager for a long time and deserves Hall of Fame election. But like McGwire and other juicers, should he—if guilty—be made to wait a decade or more? LaRussa's mediocre record as skipper of the Chicago White Sox, which predates the steroid era, is decidedly not Hall of Fame caliber. Only when LaRussa moved to Oakland—where he teamed with McGwire and Jose Canseco, two players at the core of the steroid maelstrom—did he begin amassing the numbers that led LaRussa near the top of career lists and seemingly warrant his induction.

One is left to wonder...

Thus far, no evidence has come to light—and maybe there is none to find. But Mark McGwire once, too, was pure.

Scorsese Got Lazy with Living in the Material World

I finally viewed Martin Scorsese's latest film, George Harrison: Living in the Material World. As an admirer of Scorsese's work and a long-time devotee of George, I expected a real treat for the eyes and ears. Much of the 3½-hour documentary please-pleased me, but I must confess that Scorsese's direction bored me to tears. For instance, the segment chronicling Harrison's 1999 stabbing at the hands of a mentally unstable intruder lacked any sort of Scorseseian drama. Scorsese glossed over the entire incident with nothing more than talk.

Whereas previous Scorsese films, such as Goodfellas and Gangs of New York, were chock full of graphic knife work meant to convey the visceral brutality of their characters' worlds, in the case of George Harrison, Scorsese strangely opted for empty, inert monologue. Why not recreate the moment—perhaps with a Daniel Day-Lewis cameo—and let the audience in on one of the most dramamtic moments in George's life? (Sure, Harrison's assailant probably never uttered anything about "rib or chop...loin or shank" as he attacked the Quiet Beatle, but the supremely talented Day-Lewis surely could sell such a recreation.)

This is not an oversight limited only to Scorsese's latest rock & roll biopic. One need only labor through The Last Waltz and witness the first indication that the music documentary is decidedly not Scorsese's milieu. Beyond Emmylou Harris tousling her gorgeous mane and the crazily attired Van Morrison high-kicking his way through "Caravan," the film is devoid of action. Sure, the musical performances are top-notch, but, overall, The Last Waltz is a snoozer. Where is the Joni Mitchell car chase? Where is Neil Young beating the daylights out of Rick Danko with a baseball bat? Where is Dr. John putting on 60 lb for the concert and punching a wall until his hands break? How could Scorsese permit the film's finale—The Band, Ringo Starr, and Ronnie Wood backing Bob Dylan as he performs "I Shall Be Released"—to progress as nothing more than a soulful sing-along when he could have turned it into an epic bloodbath? It's no surprise that The Last Waltz is one of Scorsese's lowest earning films—even the box-office flop Kundun outgrossed it almost 16-fold!

I haven't been this disappointed in a Martin Scorsese film since the stale popcorn in The King of Comedy.

Finding a Founding Father Lacking in Accuracy

So you know those Citizens Bank ads featuring Alexander Hamilton. Most people don't have any idea of Hamilton's role in the founding of our federal banking system. In fact, a large part of our oblivious populace is not aware that it's Hamilton gracing the $10 bill (I've met some of this lamentable demographic personally).

But what's the one thing practically every school child is taught about Alexander Hamilton? That he was killed in a duel by Aaron Burr, the Vice President of the United States.

So why doesn't the actor in the Citizens Bank commercials have a big, bloody bullet hole in his lower abdomen? I mean, can't we have some concession to historicity?

It doesn't even have to be overt. Perhaps Hamilton, in touting the virtues of Citizens Bank, explains to his Federalist colleagues, "Some people get shot...a good bank gets that," as Hamilton rolls his eyes downward and motions his brow toward his damaged torso, before collapsing in agony from his mortal wound...then cue the fife-and-drum jingle as his colleagues clumsily administer a poultice and brandy in vain.

Otherwise, Alexander Hamilton is just another Founding Father, as anonymous as Nicholas Gilman or Gunning Bedford, Jr.

Why Wait for the Shake?

One never knows how one will react in moments of great stress or risk. The meek might summon unanticipated strength, and the strong may cower like a frightened dog. Either way, character is often defined at such flash points.

Just such an experience found me today when the 5.8 Virginia earthquake that shook much of the East Coast rumbled through the Philadelphia area—the first true earthquake I, and most in this neck of America, have ever endured.

I was sitting at my desk when the temblor struck. Truth be told, I was looking at porn on the computer and in the midst of self-satisfaction when the ground began shaking. Feeling the floor move and seeing the walls sway, I realized almost instantly that an earthquake was taking place. It felt a lot like when I suffered vertigo ten years ago, my sense of balance once again awry and my body momentarily helpless. Hardly in a state to rush out of my apartment building—what with my manhood exposed—I felt no such compulsion anyway. Rather than overcome by fear, I remained completely calm, as the curious novelty of the moment suppressed any trace of panic. Frankly, all I could think about once the shuddering ceased was finishing what I started. Why should plate tectonics rob me of an orgasm? Besides, if my death is imminent, I can't think of a better way to go out of this world than blowing my top to high-resolution pics of a nude, glistening Ariana Jollee spread-eagle at pool-side. Would it really make a hell of a difference that my lifeless body will be uncovered from the rubble with my pants open and my dust-covered pride hanging out? That I got right back to business instead of checking for damage, turning on the news, or escaping a potentially crumbling structure probably doesn't speak to my legacy, but I was operating on primal urge—and I remain steadfast that I did the right thing.

So much so that, like taking shelter in a basement during a tornado, perhaps I have proven that masturbation is the safest course of action during an earthquake.

Frankly, I found that the shaking so added to the pleasure—perhaps in a fashion similar to how autoerotic asphyxiation reputedly heightens orgasm—that I'm now wondering if it might pay to move to a more earthquake-prone country, such as Indonesia or Turkey, to enjoy this newfound enhancement more regularly.

Hate Baiting in Fishtown

Forget the Hulk—this is one angry banner...

The building upon which this vitriolic banner flies (this photo has not been doctored in any way) is located on the 1100 block of Earl Street, in Philadelphia's Fishtown section. The Bank of America to which this certainly refers is located around the corner, on Girard Avenue.

Now, I'm just wondering what Bank of America could have done to elicit such hatred that someone went to the time-consuming, costly, and probably perilous trouble of making this banner and affixing it to his or her home (notice there are no windows from which to easily hang it).

Did Bank of America turn down this resident's loan application for a start-up banner company? Has Bank of America slashed its business hours to 9:00–9:10 AM, Mondays only? Are Bank of America's tellers laughing at this customer's balance every time (s)he comes in to make a transaction?

Banks can be very intimidating entities with which to deal. A bank most likely has more money than you, which can make you feel inferior and disadvantaged. So this could merely be a case of fiscal jealousy; however, such rage would be misplaced, because the guitar shop, the burger place, and the realty office a few doors down from the Girard Ave. Bank of America surely also have more money than this resident—so (s)he may well just be venting at the most readily recognizable symbol of financial superiority.

But even in these economically frustrating times, in which tempers toward the well-to-do are boiling over with increasing regularity, such ire as drapes this building must certainly result from a particular action.

So I'm betting that Bank of America slept with this resident's wife...

Valdez as Slick on the Mound as in Prince William Sound

A 19-inning marathon between the Philadelphia Phillies and Cincinnati Reds ended at 1:19 this morning, with 2nd-baseman Wilson Valdez earning the victory after Philadelphia had exhaused its bullpen. Valdez became the first player since none other than Babe Ruth to start a game at a position other than pitcher, move to the mound, and record a victory, which Ruth did on October 1, 1921.

Now that Valdez is in the company of baseball royalty, doesn't he deserve a snazzy nickname? I think so...and, based on Wilson's hair, I suggest "Exxon," because Valdez's coif quite resembles the aftermath of the Exxon Valdez disaster, with his beard standing in for the pooled spillage that washed ashore in Prince William Sound, Alaska.














All in favor...?

Two About Killebrew

This morning, Minnesota Twins great and Hall of Famer Harmon Killebrew succumbed to a six-month battle with esophageal cancer after choosing to end unresponsive treatment and die at home. I never saw him play (or if I did, I have no recollection, owing to young age and the fact that he was long past his prime and bore no resemblance to an all-time great whom I would remember), so a platitude-filled eulogy would be misplaced.*

*Sadly, as an employee for a sports-memorabilia company in 1989, I met many great baseball players but did not work the day that Killebrew came into the office to sign items—a missed opportunity that I've long regretted because he has always been known as a gracious and classy gentleman, as was confirmed by my then-coworkers.

However, two aspects of Killebrew's great career bear mentioning:

» Signed as a "bonus baby" in June 1954 by the Washington Senators, had the Sens given Killebrew a regular spot in the lineup earlier instead of allowing him a mere 254 at-bats during the first five years of his career, he may well have taken a run at Babe Ruth's mark of 714 home runs. Instead, Senators brass wasted Killebrew's first two years on the bench—for awful second-division teams going nowhere—and then sent him to the minors (under "bonus baby" rules, Killebrew had to stay with the parent club for two seasons before he could go to the minors). After three seasons climbing his way up the minor-league ladder (during which the Senators failed to play even .400 ball and clearly had nothing to lose by giving Killebrew more playing time), Harmon came up for good in 1959...and promptly smashed a league-leading 42 home runs (earning the first of six home-run crowns). That he did this while playing his home games in Griffith Stadium, one of the most unforgiving pitcher's parks in Major League history, is a testament to his brute strength—and Washington management's five-year short-sightedness. The Senators soon moved to the Twin Cities—and Killebrew would quickly lead the Twins to the World Series—but had foolishly deprived Harmon of at least several years in his early twenties when, with a full season to swing the bat, he could easily have hit at least 100 home runs before what eventually became his breakout year (based on the 11 HR he hit in those 254 AB, over five 650-AB seasons). Without question, Killebrew would have reached a minimum of 600 career home runs (he retired with 573)—placing him in "baseball immortal" territory...possibly ahead of Willie Mays—and within reach of Ruth, of whom he fell 141 homers shy...an amount for which he was almost exactly on pace during those first five years that the Senators squandered his talent. In any event, Killebrew would have retired a household name rather than a "second-tier" great.

» It has long been rumored that the official Major League Baseball logo designed in 1969 was based on Harmon Killebrew's batting stance (and perhaps it was no coincidence that Killebrew was in the midst of his greatest season in '69, eventually winning the AL MVP...so who better to "represent" baseball in tumultuous 1969 than the quiet, ever-respectable Killebrew?). This rumor was finally quashed by the logo's creator, Jerry Dior, in a 2008 Wall Street Journal story...but did it even need to be? That ball is coming right at the hitter—a hit-by-pitch for sure. Baseball, always staunchly conservative, obviously viewed the hit-by-pitch as a symbol of self-sacrifice in the overindulgent, anti-war '60s. Yet Harmon Killebrew was hit by a pitch only 48 times during his career, which ties him for 429th on the all-time hit-by-pitch list—hardly the emblem of the hit-by-pitch. And what pitcher would want to? Killebrew, although only 5-foot-11, was regarded as one of the most powerful men in baseball because of his many tape-measure blasts. No pitcher in his right mind would throw at Killebrew, even in that rebellious, anything-goes decade. Sure, Harmon led the AL in hit-by-pitches in 1964, but that was a season during which a lot of young and disillusioned American League pitchers were still shaken and angry over the Kennedy assassination (1964 was, in fact, the AL's highest year in hit-by-pitches since 1915—like John F. Kennedy, the season after the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria, which surely affected many politically aware pitching staffs).

No, he didn't get to 600 home runs and beyond. No, he didn't serve as the model for Major League Baseball's official logo. But the humble Harmon Killebrew lived, and died, with dignity and grace.

(MLB logo is a registered trademark of Major League Baseball.)

Interstate Love Sign

At the entrance ramp of Exit 1D on I-76 West in Gloucester City, New Jersey, stands one of those oft-seen, blue “Sponsor a Highway” signs. (There are actually two types of these signs: the “Sponsor a Highway Program,” in which the Adopt A Highway Maintenance Corporation performs the actual litter removal, and the “Adopt A Highway Program,” in which the interested party leasing the sign “adopts” its mile of road and physically maintains it, in much the same way as did Cosmo Kramer—although widening the lanes is frowned upon). These signs are rented by local establishments such as Cracker Barrel or institutional corporations such as Blue Cross for high-profile advertising in heavily trafficked areas. However, the particular sign of which I speak was leased to Club Risqué, a gentlemen’s club in nearby Philadelphia.

I don’t have a problem with this. I've frequented Club Risqué on a number of occasions and found it to be a pleasant and enriching experience. With what I do have a problem is that Club Risqué opted for the “Sponsor a Highway” program rather than “adopting” its mile. When I’m stuck bumper-to-bumper on an interstate and feeling angry and frustrated, what could better ease tension than watching the Club Risqué dancers cleaning up their mile of median and roadside? Club Risqué’s mile also contains numerous light poles upon which its employees could be performing their mesmerizing art. Instead, the frankly unattractive and hirsute Adopt A Highway Maintenance Corporation is out doing the job.

Club Risqué missed a great opportunity both for product demonstration and for helping out beleaguered commuters. As a motorist, I find this distressing.

Sneakin' Alley Through the SALLY: Was Robert Palmer Addicted to Baseball?

For a good portion of the 1960s, shortstop Gene Alley teamed with Bill Mazeroski to form one of the more formidable keystone combos in baseball history. Anchoring a Pittsburgh Pirates franchise up the middle, Alley nabbed a pair of Gold Gloves in his two best offensive seasons and earned a spot on two All-Star squads as well.

But before Alley claimed his ground in the Majors, he spent two seasons with the Asheville Tourists of the South Atlantic League—long known as the SALLY League.

Speaking of the South Atlantic, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean in 1961-'62, a young Robert Palmer—still many years from becoming a world-famous solo singer and frontman for the Power Station—may or may not have been a keen supporter of the Asheville Tourists and thus may or may not have known of Gene Alley's existence in the SALLY League. And sadly, Palmer is no longer around to be asked. 

However, I'm inclined to believe that Palmer was an ardent Tourists fan. What else would explain his first solo album, Sneakin' Sally Through the Alley, debuting eleven months after Gene Alley's final Major League game? More to the point: Is not the album's title and the groovy title track—which grew to be terrifically popular—a veiled tip of the cricket cap from a long-distance fan a little too eager to see his baseball hero called up to The Show?

I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

Be sure to click Play in the YouTube video below before perusing said proof...

Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY
Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY

Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY
Trying to earn Pittsburgh's invite
Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY
Grounders and pop-ups are rife

I said, I can't find nothing wrong with Bob Friend 'cos sometimes
He's heard 'bout my glove from Stargell
He said, if you can't find nothing wrong with your swing
You'd better, you'd better find your way up to Pittsburgh
So I began to try to explain that it wasn't just, wasn't just Danny Murtaugh
I'd better find my way straight to Triple-A
Before I become, oh, an afterthought

Sneakin' through the SALLY with Alley
Sneakin' through the SALLY with Alley
Sneakin' through the SALLY with Alley
Trying to make a Bucko out of Gene
Sneakin' through the SALLY with Alley
Pitt needs a slick-fielding string bean

Trying to cause balks, smacking doubles, drawing walks, catching all those pop flies
Catch all those pop flies
Skipper just looked at me as if I was crazy
Says I don't have a batting eye
So I began to try to explain that it wasn't just, wasn't just Danny Murtaugh
I'd better find my way straight to Triple-A
The fact is, it's Columbus or naught

Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY
Columbus or naught
Oh, oh, sneakin', sneakin', sneakin'
Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY

Trying to cause balks, smacking doubles, drawing walks, catching all those pop flies
Catch all those pop flies
Skipper just looked at me as if I was crazy
Says I don't have a batting eye

Sneakin' through the SALLY with Alley
Sneakin' through the SALLY with Alley

Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY
Sneakin' Alley through the SALLY

You Can Take That to the Bank...But You’re Better Off Using Your Mattress

TD Bank’s registered logo is “America's Most Convenient Bank.” You’ve surely seen one of its numerous television ads featuring Regis Philbin and Kelly Ripa. But I’ve been banking with TD Bank since it took over Commerce Bank, and I contend that TD Bank is perhaps America’s Least Convenient bank. For instance:

On Monday, I queued up in one of my local branch's four drive-thru lanes to deposit a check. After stuffing the check and deposit slip into the container and sending it to the teller, I sat and waited for more than ten minutes as five customers who had entered their lane and began their transaction after me received service and drove away while I continued to wait.

Inconvenient.

The very next day, I drove to the same branch to obtain some temporary checks because I was still awaiting the arrival of my new ones. The customer-service representative informed me that they did not have any temporary checks and that I would have to go to another branch to get them.

Inconvenient!

These are inconveniences occurring just this week. There’s also the $4.00 “maintenance fee” that TD Bank charged when my savings-account balance fell below $250.00. I didn’t even know this fee existed...and they charged me for it four consecutive months. I accrued 75 measly cents in interest on my savings in 2010...yet TD Bank took $16 for “maintaining” my account! What did that maintenance require? Leaning over to shift cheeks while sitting on their fat asses staring at the sun and waiting for 5:00 so they could run to Prospector’s and down a martini with my money? Okay, so I have Web access to my account, which could have alerted me earlier to this hidden fee—but I rarely used my savings account in 2010 and seldom had need to check it. Bottom line:

In...con...ven...ient.

And if I had a nickel for every time a TD Bank ATM was out of service when I needed to use it, I’d have just enough money to open another TD Bank savings account and lose $4 a month in maintenance fees...

Quite inconvenient.

Further making its customers’ lives more difficult, TD Bank used to allot to account holders two money orders a year without charge. A TD Bank money order now costs an account holder $4.

Extremely inconvenient!

TD Bank’s advertising campaign further boasts about its “legendary service” (as seen in small print in the ad above). I would very much like Regis and/or Kelly to explain what’s so "legendary” about it. Banking, in one form or another, has existed since antiquity. Certainly, the banking families of Renaissance Italy introduced practices that are still in use today, and Alexander Hamilton proved to be one of the greatest banking minds in modern history, organizing the first bank of our fledgling nation. But TD Bank as an operating unit dates back only to October 2008—hardly a history with which to achieve “legendary” service. Now, had TD Bank lent substantial sums to Charles V so he could finance his wars against the Valois kings of France, or perhaps had it provided coin-counting machines and safety-deposit boxes to the Pilgrims, then a claim of “legendary service” might be justified. But TD Bank reviving the tradition of offering free lollipops at its counter doesn’t cut it. Finance a crusade or two... Provide home-equity loans in gold ducats... Offer a 700-year CD so you’ll have a viable past by the time it matures... At least give out free quill & inkwells instead of those cheap pens... Something to legitimize your claim...

Most convenient?

Perhaps TD Bank should drop Regis and Kelly in favor of the Church Lady so as to make more obvious that its claim is a goof.

Besides, Dana Carvey needs the work...



Postscript

The checks I ordered more than three weeks ago still have not arrived.

Ludicrously inconvenient!

Post-postscript

As of October 2012, TD Bank no longer sells postage stamps through its ATMs.

OFF-THE-SCALE INCONVENIENT!

Post-post-postscript

May 31, 2014: Once again, the ATM is out of order, necessitating that I stand in a long line for counter service while staring at the AMERICA'S MOST CONVENIENT BANK slogan—the banking world's version of the Warren Report—all-too-proudly mounted on the wall behind the tellers.

INCONVENIENCE INCARNATE!

Post-post-post-postscript

July 30, 2014: Again, the ATM is out of order. Standing next in line, one teller occupied and the other teller busy doing apparently nothing, a customer-service employee, seeing me growing visibly frustrated, walks across the bank floor, goes behind the counter, and asks the unoccupied teller whether he informed me that his line is closed. The teller responds affirmatively despite never having even looked up to see me standing at the head of the line about ten feet away, let alone never uttering a single word to me. A brazen and shameless lie that would have Alexander Hamilton spinning in his urn—made without even attempting to conceal his fallacious claim from my ears.

INCONVENIENCE-TURNED-IMPUDENT DISHONESTY!

Post-post-post-post-postscript

October 14, 2014: The TD Bank in Lake Worth, Florida, has a line of customers almost out the door, yet only a single teller is working the counter. Making matters worse, at least for me, of the fifteen (15!) slots of transaction slips available at the front-door counter, exactly none (0!) of them contain withdrawal slips. Apparently, TD Bank doesn’t want you to have access to your money.

TEETH-GNASHINGLY INCONVENIENT!

Post-post-post-post-post-postscript

December 26, 2014: As the fifth car in the drive-thru this afternoon, more than ten minutes passed without a single transaction being completed by the unconcerned teller, who instead found it more important to wave at, and inquire about, the crying infant in the lead vehicle. Finally, I pulled out of line, parked, and conducted my banking inside.

When the drive-thru is slower than going inside, it’s time to look for another bank...

Post-post-post-post-post-post-postscript

October 5, 2015: Brought $174.15 of coins to TD Bank to deposit in their coin counter. (I painstakingly hand-counted every coin last evening, logging each one with a tick mark, by denomination, on a white-lined sheet of paper, because more than a few reports exist of banks deliberately miscalibrating their machines so that they can shortchange you and bilk you out of even more of your money.) Sure enough, the TD Bank machine produced a total of $167.41—more than $6 short, putting this far beyond the realm of an innocent margin of error. The bank manager didn’t count on me producing the hand-logged inventory of coins and, after ten minutes of awkward fumfering on her part, my account was finally credited the full amount. However, I still did not receive the $1.99 bonus for guessing within $2.00 of the pre-count total (I input the exact amount, of course).

KISS MY ASS, REGIS AND KELLI!

Post-post-post-post-post-post-post-postscript

November 28, 2015: More than two weeks after closing out my safety-deposit box (going into my local branch, removing my property, and signing the forms to officially terminate the account), I received a late notice for safety-deposit box renewal. TD Bank is demanding $43.00 in 2016 fees for a deposit box I no longer rent. To add insult to buffoonery, TD Bank is still sending my mail to my old address, which I updated in its system more than a month ago.

PUCKER UP AGAIN, REGIS AND KELLI!

Post-etc-script

January 13, 2016: My debit card—which is “good thru” April 2016, has virtually no wear on it, and has never before given me a problem either at an ATM or accessing one in a locked TD Bank lobby—failed to unlock the door of my local branch tonight, I had to sit in the dark parking lot until another customer entered the lobby, so I could stand outside and wait until he exited. If you think that was vexing enough—and it was—understand that the $1.5 billion Powerball drawing is tonight—and with ticket sales ending, by local law, at 10:00, I was fighting the clock to get cash. Sure, I could have gone to a non-TD Bank ATM, but the galling surcharges tacked on by both the host bank and good ol’ TD would have amounted to anywhere from $6 to $8. After paying nearly half a billion dollars in federal, state, and local taxes on my Powerball jackpot winnings, there’d hardly been anything left thanks to TD’s grubby little hands...

I’D LIKE TO KICK YOU IN THE POWERBALL, TD BANK!

Super-post-etc-script

November 12, 2020: I just discovered that TD Bank has hiked its annual fee for a safety-deposit box from $45 to $70—a 64% increase!

FLAT-OUT HIGHWAY ROBBERY, TD BANK!

Double-super-post-etc-script

August 22, 2022: Faced with the potential of being stuck behind a long line of cars at TD Bank’s drive-thru during the lunch hour, I pulled myself out of bed early for its opening at 8:30 am. Arriving at that time, I was second in line and figured to have an expeditious deposit of my check. Once again, TD Bank proved itself anything but America’s most convenient bank. The customer ahead of me took nearly ten minutes to complete his transaction. I’m not entirely sure who was responsible for this absurd manipulation of valuable time as the clock ticked toward the start of the workday and my need to be home to log on in a timely manner. I could not make out the majority of the words as the teller spoke to the customer, but it seemed as if the customer had erred or miscalculated in some way, for the teller returned paperwork to the customer via the extending tray. More minutes went by, and my entirely justified and expletive-laden complaining rose to a level that, but for the car radio, might have been detected by both parties ahead of me as it seeped out of my half-open window. Some putz apparently trying to refinance his mortgage in the drive-thru lane is the height of arrogance and a real screw you to fellow customers.

YOU’RE A NIGHTMARE NO MATTER WHAT TIME OF DAY IT IS, TD BANK!

(TD Bank ad copyright TD Bank; Church Lady photo copyright NBC.)