No. 703 – In the Garden

Performer: Animal Logic

Songwriters: Deborah Holland, Frankie Blue

Original Release: Animal Logic II

Year: 1991

Definitive Version: None

Animal Logic might be the most obscure group that I have on this list—maybe there’s one other. I bought their first album almost on a whim based on the fact that Animal Logic included jazz legend Stanley Clarke on bass and Stewart Copeland—yes, THAT Stewart Copeland—on drums.

I liked it enough to buy the second one, which wasn’t as good but had a song that beat anything that was on the first album—this one. There aren’t many albums that don’t have a full writeup with a track listing on Wikipedia. Animal Logic II is one of them.

Anyway, at the time I was one of about the only people in the world who not were even aware of this song but actually digging it, I had to figure out what to do with the winnings from (SPOILER ALERT) my glorious final-day triumph in the Flint Journal rotisserie league in 1990.

An authentic properly numbered, completely awesome Frank Thomas White Sox home jersey was a given, and I was as excited getting that in the mail as I’d ever been getting a Topps set when I was a kid. But what else to do with the $260 haul?

After having attended (ANOTHER SPOILER ALERT) the final game at Comiskey Park in 1990, the choice became clear after I heard of Jerry Reinsdorf’s plans for the grand old yard. After demolishing it, he was going to sell as much as he could with all the money going to White Sox Charities. Seats were going for $250 apiece, so it would cost more than my rotball winnings.

Well, the choice was obvious. To me, my Rotball victory was more about the pride of winning. The actual winnings were found money to me, and found money is meant to spent, and if I had to spend a little bit more to get a real baseball treasure, so be it.

So I mailed away my check and waited for the actual razing, which was complete in late summer of 1991. But when the day came to go and pick up my loot, the timing was problematic. Fortunately, Jin lived in Chicago, and she said she’d drive down to the warehouse on the South Side and get my chair and I would be able to pick it up the next time I saw her.

It turns out that I didn’t see her till Christmas, which seemed like an appropriate time to receive my bounty. She arrived late and when she didn’t come in the house with it, I assumed it was in the trunk of her car buried under Christmas presents. Just so long as she had it. She assured me she did, even though the words that fell from her lips (with proper little sister quizzical expression) were, “What chair?”

Well, it wasn’t under the tree the next day, and I think I said something only once. Once again, her response was “What chair?”

Little siblings are a blessing, aren’t they?

Finally it was time to assemble in the dining room for Christmas dinner, and everyone had dressed in more suitable attire for a nice dinner of turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes—the holy dining trinity. And at one spot at the table was a chair that stood out not only because it was decorated with balloons and ribbons but also that it was low-slung and had a slat back.

My chair! I laughed; it was a great presentation. Jin and snuck it into the house, and Dad had built wood-board footing supports, so the seat could stand on its own. Now here it was all dressed up and ready for action.

Jin said that when she got to the warehouse, they just opened the door and let her roam around to take what she wanted, so she looked for a chair that had a 44 on it (our family number) and found a chair that had 440 stamped into the wood of the seat back. As she was leaving the warehouse, she also spotted a pile of debris that was obviously chunks of the actual stadium and stuffed one into her coat pocket, which she then presented to me.

Bonus! Maybe little siblings aren’t so bad after all.

The chair was the first real piece of stadium memorabilia that I owned. It showed the wear and tear of numerous Chicago winters and summers and countless fans, and its green paint—probably lead-based—was flaking off here and there. But it worked just fine and was—and is—a thing of beauty.